


My Heart Holds On To You

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide Attempt, Virgin Sherlock, Vulnerable Sherlock, three garridebs scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. </p><p>Sherlock is at the end of his hunt to take down Moriarty’s outlying criminal network. John is at the end of his wits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angstlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstlover/gifts).



> This is my birthday-cum-secret santa gift for my good friend [Putri](http://www.addignisherlock.tumblr.com/). It's chockful of angst, just the way you like it, and I apologise if you hate reading WIPs but I seriously have no idea how long I plan this fic to be, but I do hope you enjoy it and that it lives up to your twisted expectations. Happy birthday you crazy person, thank you for a fantastic 2015 and let's get this show started oh god is that Agent Classified I hear playing on TV behind me squee benedict!! ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic starts with unreplied texts from John to Sherlock over the course of a year.

 

> From: John  
>  Received: 17th June, 12.01pm
> 
> **I miss your texts more than I thought, Sherlock. Who's gonna demand me to buy the milk now?**

> From: John  
>  Received: 17th June, 12.30pm
> 
> **Where is your phone anyway? I would've thought they'd pass it to me along with your other stuff after, you know. For all I know I could be texting another serial killer. Funny, that.**

> From: John  
>  Received: 8th August, 2.30pm
> 
> **Lestrade came over with some of your stuff today. I watched the uncut version of the video you did when you missed my birthday party last year. Thank you.**

> From: John  
>  Received: 9th August, 8.23pm
> 
> **Ella’s started prescribing me sleeping pills again to help with the insomnia.**

> From: John  
>  Received: 22nd August, 8.24pm
> 
> **God knows only your violin playing at 2am the morning is the only thing that helps me sleep. Even Bach played through YouTube doesn't sound quite the same.**

> From: John  
>  Received: 30th August, 3.15am
> 
> **If I'm texting you at this time of day, quite obviously these pills aren't working for me. Huh.**

> From: John  
>  Received: 8th September, 8.20pm
> 
> **I dropped by Angelo’s today. He still insisted on the free food. “I'm more than honoured to serve any friend of Sherlock’s at no cost”, he'd said.**

> From: John  
>  Received: 4th January, 9.15am
> 
> **I solved a small case for Lestrade yesterday. An odd one where a body was found with quotes from Shakespeare carved into the skin. Maybe I'll tell you all about it when I visit your grave on Saturday. You'd be proud of me.**

> From: John  
>  Received: 4th January, 9.16am
> 
> **Oh, and I didn't forget Sherlock. I'll be there to wish you a happy birthday. You'd call it dull but I'm just glad to be able to dedicate at least one day every year to your memory for the rest of my life. One day is a tad too little though. I'll see you soon.**

> From: John  
>  Received: 15th January, 7.20pm
> 
> **I miss you so much, you git.**

> From: John  
>  Received: 15th January, 7.30pm
> 
> **Going for a pint with Lestrade. By the way, he's seeing Molly now, and I can only say, finally :)**

> From: John  
>  Received: 15th January, 11.42pm
> 
> **Why’d you leave me behind, you bastard?**

Little puffs of breath evaporate into the frigid, still Serbian air as Sherlock makes his way down a back alley in the city of Obrenovac. He has been there for the past two weeks, trying to take down one of the last few weapon smuggling rings linked to Jim Moriarty. Zlatko Miloje is the man in charge of the operation and had unfortunately slipped through Sherlock's surveillance the day before.

He has tracked Miloje to a small factory on the outskirts of the city and is in the middle of figuring out how to get himself into the building when he feels a faint buzzing in his back pocket. Thinking nothing of it, Sherlock picks the lock easily and slips into the derelict building. The place is dimly lit and Sherlock hears muffled voices speaking in Serbian coming from deeper in.

Easily cloaked in the shadows, Sherlock makes his way towards the voices, careful not to give his presence away. Mere feet away from his target, the phone in his pocket buzzes again. He quickly fishes it out and switches it off without glancing at the messages waiting for him, not wanting any distractions when he was this close to eliminating his target.

It is during this momentary lapse of focus that Sherlock receives a hard blow to the back of his head and everything goes black.

* * *

Sherlock slowly comes to, albeit in a daze. He opens his eyes and is greeted by a sneering face. _Miloje_. Sherlock lets out an agonised groan, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Everything seems off-balance, as if he is floating in mid-air. He tries to move his hands, only to discover that he is chained to opposite sides of the wall.

The more lucid Sherlock became, the more he beomes aware of the various cuts on his torso, and the indescribable stinging on his back. Miloje disappears from view and before Sherlock can register anything else, there is a loud _thwack_ and his body jerks backwards from the impact of the long wooden rod. He hisses, the blinding pain temporarily rendering him white with shock and scrabbling for purchase on the slippery, dirty floor of the torture chamber he is in. He is starting to feel nauseous so he takes to heaving huge breaths through his nose in an attempt to coax the pain and tears away.

Sherlock can only gasp in pain when a gruff voice laced with a heavy accent speaks up in English and foreign fingers graze his raw, bleeding back.

“You’ve been following me. Who are you?”

Silence from Sherlock’s end, save for his deep breaths and a barely-there moan of pain.

“Trust me when I say this punishment I’m giving you now is just the beginning. Now I will ask you again, _who are you_? Who sent you?”

Sherlock refuses to answer, and for his insolence, receives another cruel blow to his exposed back. His hair, longer and more unkempt than his normal, tidy self would have allowed, clings to his sweaty face. His wrists are starting to ache to the point of numbness, and if Sherlock were to shift them, he is more than certain that a layer of skin would be ripped off as well. Still, he holds his tongue, wanting to (and at the same time, _not_ wanting to) see how far Miloje was willing to go in order to break Sherlock.

Turns out, he did not have to wait long.

The man is grasping Sherlock’s hair to bring his face up and hiss in his ear when he hears a sickening crunch and his captor ends up slumping forward and onto the floor in a heap of unmoving limbs.

Sherlock hates being the damsel in distress, and this time, it is no different.

“For god’s sake, I had it under control, Mycroft!” hisses Sherlock towards the shadows at his back.

“Yes, and I absolutely _adore_ getting my hands dirty,” a haughty voice responds, its owner stepping towards Sherlock with a bit more haste than deemed necessary. The only bad guy in the room is dead, after all.

Sherlock takes a moment to process Mycroft’s presence and come up with 37 reasons as to why his brother chose to see him face-to-face instead of through simple way of texting, especially in the middle of one of Sherlock’s many self-planned missions to dismantle Moriarty’s web. 36 reasons of the 37 indicate that something had gone wrong. The other reason is that Mycroft did not want to lose his brother by amazingly dull way of torture. An act of sentimentality by the Ice Man, but touching, irregardless.

Sherlock snaps back to the present and jangled his chains a little, hoping that his brother would remember that Sherlock is very much in pain and about to lose all blood flow in his arms.

Mycroft steps forward, efficiently releasing Sherlock’s bindings and letting him slowly lower himself to the floor, wincing as the stretch of his back muscles brought with it a fresh wave of pain. He manages to glance up at his elder brother, who is watching his every move, his posture ramrod straight and shoulders tense. Sherlock rarely saw his brother all tensed up, even while the man was busy planning the next World War.

“Well? What is it that’s so important that you had to see me yourself at ground zero?” Sherlock snaps.

“Change of plans, brother dear. You’re returning to London today.”

“No. I’m not done here.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew the reason for my interrupting what little fun you were having with Miloje just now.”

“Go ahead, enlighten me.”

Mycroft gives a small sigh and utters the one word that freezes Sherlock in his tracks--

“John.”

“Wha-? J-John? What’s happened? Mugging?”

“Sherlock-”

“Car accident? Kidnapped? Missing? Oh god, you sent him back to Afghanistan didn’t yo-”

“Sherlock if you’d please just give me a moment!”

At this point Sherlock has pulled himself up and is practically looming over Mycroft, his face red with worry and something akin to desperation in his eyes, “What’s wrong with John?”

“I regret to inform you that your former flatmate is, to put it lightly, unwell. John had been hoarding his sleeping pills for several weeks until he knowingly took more than he needed last night. He went into shock and would have died if Mrs Hudson had not come to check in on him.” Mycroft replies with almost clinical detachment.

Sherlock’s face pales even more than Mycroft thought possible. With shaking hands, the normally aloof young man grasps the elder’s coat and the mood visibly shifts from one of disbelief to rage once his words had settled into the still air around them. 

“John...oh god, John..overdosed last night and you only bothered to inform me _now_?!”

“Sherlock.. I did try to contact you, but you were not answering your phone!” Mycroft haules himself out of the other man’s reach, even having the audacity to smooth the undoubtedly expensive material down.

“Damn you, Mycroft. You promised me you’d look after him while I’m gone. What is the use for your cameras if John managed to do one over and almost kill himself right under your bloody nose?”

“John had found the cameras and disabled them on his own, one by own, after your “death”, Sherlock. He did not want to be kept watch upon for no reason. There’s only so much I can do without making it seem like I was disturbing his grieving process, for god’s sake! Now do you want to see him, or not?”

Sherlock stops grabbing fistfuls of his hair and turns to glare daggers at his sibling before running off towards the entrance to the dark, dingy room. Mycroft rubs his hand down his face in exasperation before trailing after him and calling for their pickup. It was time to make the necessary arrangements, which is to get Sherlock to John as soon as possible, and meanwhile, Mycroft will ensure that he’d finish what he started.

* * *

Sherlock cannot help thumping his right foot up and down as he sits in the private plane. He is just an hour away from London but already his shirt clings to his slender frame, wrecked in a constant nervous sweat. 

This is not how he imagined coming home to John would be like. He imagined a gradual return, dropping hints as to not surprise John too much when he did eventually show up in person, and there would undoubtedly be uncertain hugs and even more uncertain tears of joy. This is not how he imagined it would go, he, Sherlock Holmes, itching to jump off the plane and run to John’s bedside, bandaged and bleeding back be damned, his frame malnourished and a mind empty for everything save for the constant litany of voices uttering a single word over and over, _John, John, John_.

He has done his closest friend, his dear, dear friend a great injustice, he realises, as he powers his phone up for the first time in 48 hours and the last unread message from John blinks up at him, as clear as day.

> From: John  
>  Received: 15th January, 11.42pm
> 
> **Why’d you leave me behind, you bastard?**  
> 

“I had to. I’m sorry,” Sherlock said to no one in particular.

The pilot of the jet sticks his head ‘round the door to the cockpit and acknowledges his passenger. “We’re landing in 30 minutes, sir.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and leans forward, hands cradling either sides of his head. 

He has to fix this. He has no idea how, contrary to how Sherlock was used to doing things. He has to fix himself, and John. He has to fix the damage before everything he had done for the past year and a half went down the drain, and in order to do that, he knows he has to steel himself for the storm that was to come. The plane starts on its downward descent, and Sherlock pulls his coat tighter around himself.

* * *

The front doors of St Bart’s Hospital fly open and Sherlock walks in in a blur of charcoal coat and long-legged strides towards the staircase. He has no time to waste, and the elevator is not worth it. The staff and visitors he passed either ignored him or jerked their heads in his direction, clearly remembering the face of the shamed former consulting detective, but Sherlock could care less. He is here for John, and John alone. 

He arrives at the 12th floor and turns right at the lobby, towards room 12-9. He understood from Mycroft that John has a room all to himself, and Sherlock welcomed the much provided privacy. His feet come to a halt outside the door marked with the name of the patient occupying it. _Watson, John_. The blinds are pulled closed over the see-through window connecting the corridor of the ward and interior of the room itself so he has no idea what to expect the moment he stepped inside.

It is with lips sealed tight and a hesitant, slightly trembling hand that Sherlock pushes open the door and crosses the threshold that separated him and his blogger.

The room is dimly lit and deathly silent, save for the beeping of the bedside monitors. Sherlock’s breath hitched, and his hand let go of the door handle to shut out the outside world. His gaze immediately goes to the prone figure on the bed.

_John, John, John._

_I’m here._

He dows not dare move any closer to the bed lest he wake John up. To be honest, he isn’t sure he was ready to face John. Not at that very moment, no, so he takes to standing at the corner, just within the shadows, cataloguing every single detail of the John lying stock still, every wrinkle on that war-worn face, old, and new. Before, John held an air of authority and strength to him, despite his height compared to Sherlock’s, but this new John appears a lot more weakened and seems to have lost some weight. His eyebags are more pronounced and cheeks, sallow. Sherlock would think that John were dead if not for the steady rise and crest of the patient’s heart rate on the monitor.

_This is wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this._

_I’m sorry._

Sherlock takes a moment to gather himself before stepping into the twilight illuminating the room. He edges slowly forwards, feet taking minute steps, hands clenched tight at his sides. He treats like this was a crime scene, and John was the latest victim. He stops.

**"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."  
"No. Friends protect people."**

_Oh John, this is why I’m better off alone. Everyone close to me gets hurt, and you’re the newest target. I stopped Moriarty from hurting you, but in the process, I myself have caused you misery._

He finds himself looking down at John, a lump in his throat. The ex-army doctor paints a pitiful picture, face tense and hands not quite relaxed where they rest on the bed. Sherlock takes a risk. His right hand drifts forwards, the tips of his fingers just lightly brushing over the back of John’s. Nothing happenes, and Sherlock relaxes a fraction. John is alive, and Sherlock is there with him, breathing the same air, two broken souls returned to the care of the other. 

Sherlock moves silently to the chair arranged just to the side, curls up into it like he would on the sofa in 221B, and settles in for the long wait, shoes, coat and all.

* * *

Sherlock must have drifted off because the next thing he knew, he is off the chair in an instant, body in full defensive mode. It takes him a split second to register that there is no potential threat waiting to jump on him from the shadows, but that the sound that woke him came from the man on the hospital bed.

John is whimpering, body twisting slightly, and both fists are now clawing at the bed sheets. His legs are drawing up and slightly kicking the railing at the foot of the bed; sweat is visibly gathering at his temples. 

If they were at home, Sherlock would have picked up his violin and played some calming pieces to soothe the man back to peaceful slumber, but they weren’t at 221B, and he dows not have his Stradivarius. If he were to leave John alone to suffer through this nightmare, he ran the risk of ripping his IV line out and hurting himself.

Sherlock has no choice; waking John up was the only way, and so he took 2 big steps to John’s side, and just as he was about to place his hands on the man’s shoulders to nudge him back to consciousness, a moan from the man he stands over manages to make itself known amongst the ruffling of bedsheets and thrashing of limbs-- “ _Sherlock_ ” -- and the detective wrenches himself away, pushing the call button for the nurse at the same time. 

His chest heaves, searching John’s face for any sign of awareness, anxious to see if those lips had let slip Sherlock’s name borne out of the nightmare or recognition. John’s eyes are still closed, eyes visibly lolling about behind those eyelids. 

Sherlock was haunting John’s dreams, too. The taller man stands rooted to the spot, guilt washing over him once more. When a nurse then burst into the room and over to John’s bedside seconds later, Sherlock barely manages to choke out, “Please, please help him. I shouldn’t be here,” and is out the door and running down the corridor, vision blurring and chest tightening.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things only go downhill for the boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, because I've yet to make up my mind about some stuff and work is sucking the energy out of me :'( I promise the rest will be of acceptable length, heh.
> 
> ***  
> This fic has not been beta'ed or brit-picked. All mistakes are mine, and mine alone :)

_John, please forgive me._

Sherlock is slumped against the wall in a back alley close to St. Bart’s. Cigarette lit in his hand, he looks stricken, completely at a loss of what to do. He never considered what would happen once John did recover or even before that, how John would _react_ to Sherlock’s supposed return from the dead.

Instead he considers if it would be better off to stall his reveal to a later time. However, he could not stand the idea of leaving John alone in his battle for recovery, and that he would only drive himself mad with worry otherwise. Like it or not, he had a part to play in putting John in hospital in the first place. Sherlock takes a last puff of the cigarette, flicked it towards the ground and stubs it with his foot. He then hurries back to the hospital; to John.

* * *

When Sherlock returns to his friend’s room, it was empty of any hospital staff and the man lying on the bed is still once more. Whilst he attempted to get comfortable on the neighbouring chair once more, the nurse from before pokes her head in, and seeing Sherlock, smiles and makes her way towards him. 

“Sir? Your friend is alright for now, he stopped seizing a few seconds after you left. His doctor had come in and assessed his condition, and found that Mr Watson-”

“ _Doctor_ Watson,” Sherlock cuts in, narrowing his eyes at her.

“I apologise, Doctor Watson, should gain full consciousness anytime in the next 24 hours, if his brain activity is anything to go by. Would you like me to get you anything as you wait?” the nurse proffered, undeterred by the look Sherlock was shooting her.

“No thank you, thank you for...your help,” Sherlock gives in with a small sigh.

“Don’t hesitate to use the call button if you need to, alright sir,” the nurse replies before turning and leaving. The room is silent once more save for John’s mildly-laboured breaths and Sherlock’s quiet ones, so the detective arranges himself to an acceptable position on the chair once more before submitting to his transport’s exhaustion and the inexorable pull of sleep.

* * *

He awoke approximately three hours later to a John Watson who is looking much awake and _very, very_ alarmed.

Sherlock bolts upright, scrambling to get his bearings and very unprepared to face John so soon. “J-John? You’re awake!” is all he managed out of his suddenly too-tight throat.

The blonde man on the bed is still lying on his side, eyes wide and scanning Sherlock from head to toe. Slowly, he pushes himself up to a sitting position and Sherlock, without thinking, moves forward to help him up, only to elicit a recoil and shout from the other man. 

“No, no, no, no! You’re not real. _You’re not real!_ ” John stutters, one hand to his chest, and the other clutching the railing of the bed. His heart monitor displays an erratic and rising pulse, blood pressure also on the rise. At this point Sherlock is frozen where he stood, hand still outreached towards John, who is now pressing on the nurse call button with frantic urgency.

“John, it’s me. I’m here. I came back,” Sherlock found his voice. “I came back for you.” His heart is beating wildly in his chest, forehead breaking in a cold sweat, afraid of aggravating his friend further. He backs up slowly, trying to put more distance between them so as to calm John down, somewhat. 

The nurse from earlier, _Nurse Claire_ , Sherlock’s mind supplies, opens the door to the scene before her and rushes to calm the patient down, her eyes seeking out Sherlock’s in worry. “Doctor Watson? You’re alright, calm down, please,” she soothes, rubbing at John’s back. The patient in her arms takes his chance to grab at her, and jabbing his finger at Sherlock, lifted his head to face the nurse and cries out, “tell me you don’t see him there. Tell me! He’s not real! He’s _dead_!”

Nurse Claire shakes her head hard and speaks gently, “I see him, Doctor. He’s very much there. You’re not dreaming and you need to calm down. Breathe, John, breathe.”

Sherlock could only watch the proceedings with guilt overshadowing him like a great black cloud, his gloved hands wringing his wrists and head hung, unable to look John in the eye. He swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth; he feels sick to the very core with self-hatred. He makes the sad revelation that he had probably brought his friend’s PTSD back in full drive, and it was all him. Moriarty had made it impossible to seek an alternative to the grisly “end” he met with a year ago now, but it everything else that happened before and after the fall was his own doing. John ultimately paid the price for his internal desire to be rid the world of Moriarty’s influence; here he is, mind broken with grief and a body struggling to recover from a poisonous _almost_ -end.

John would never forgive him, Sherlock concludes, so he hides his face in shame, resisting the pull to comfort his (ex?) flatmate yet at the same time, unwilling to cause John further hurt. He keeps his ground, waiting out the inevitable.

“Come on John, calm. Down. Shh, you’re alright, I’ve got you,” Nurse Claire tries once more but to no avail as the man on the bed struggles to climb out of the bed and presumably get as far as he could from the spectre in the room that he clearly thought was Sherlock’s ghost out to haunt him. Another nurse makes her appearance, armed with a syringe. Together, she and Nurse Claire hold tight to John’s left arm and proceeded to inject him with a relaxant. 

“No, no, he’s dead. He’s dead. I saw you jump off the roof. You can’t be here. No, no, please, you’re dead,” John sobs, starting to show the signs of the drug taking effect and forcing his heart rate to slow down, his body to sleep. “Sherlock’s dead. It can’t be him. It _can’t, oh god._ ” The nurses lower him back into the bed, John now openly crying, two, three, droplets making their way down his cheeks. The man whimpers, succumbing to sleep, his hands relaxing their grip on the blankets.

At the same time, Sherlock lowers himself into his chair, his head in his hands. He feels numb all over. 

_How do I fix this?_ Can _this be fixed?_

Sherlock Holmes is a man of many answers, but this is one question he could not bring himself to find the answer to. He vaguely registers one nurse leaving and the other patting him on the shoulder and saying something about giving John time, to not worry, but Sherlock is already far away in his mind palace, pulling open doors only to shut them again, in search of his answer and how to go about redeeming himself for his and John’s sake.

He waves the nurse away and replies something along the lines of _I’m fine_ , and sneaking to John’s bedside to retrieve his phone, unlocks it with ease (some things never change) and texted the one person he knew John would have confided in during his year-long absence.

_To: Greg Lestrade  
Sent: 17 January, 1.03am_

**Lestrade, care for a pint and footie tonight to catch up?**

_From: Greg Lestrade  
Received: 17 January, 1.10am_

**Bloody hell John, what are you doing up at this time of night? Sod that, I’m in. The usual at 8-ish?**

_To: Greg Lestrade  
Sent: 17 January, 1.12am_

**Will be there. Cheers!**

With that, Sherlock returns the phone to the drawer and texts Mycroft with his own phone next.

_To: Mycroft  
Sent: 17 January, 1:15am_

**John thinks I’m a ghost. They had to knock him out. What do I do, Mycroft? SH.**

_From: Mycroft  
Received: 17 January, 1:17am_

**You give him time. It’s all you can do, little brother.**

If it’s time John needs, it’s time he’ll get. Sherlock does not deal well with waiting, but if it meant John could heal and things could get better, then _yes_ , Sherlock will wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for convenience' sake, let's pretend Lestrade does not know that John is in hospital and it did not occur to Mrs Hudson to call him for help first that fateful night :p
> 
> Good or bad, leave a comment so I know what you think about the fic so far please and thank you, it'd be much appreciated for a first-time writer like moi. Yay! :D


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is un-beta'ed nor brit-picked! :)

A cry of _“oh you bastard!”_ and, unexpectedly, a punch to the nose _followed_ by a rough hug greets Sherlock the moment he steps up to the bar to tap Lestrade on the shoulder. 

He reckons he deserves it. 

Unfortunately the pub owner has at that point mistaken Sherlock’s bleeding nose to be the first sign of an impending brawl between the two men and thus proceeds to kick them both out, much to Lestrade’s dismay over his unfinished lager and Sherlock’s shrug of indifference.

As Lestrade fishes in his pocket to lend Sherlock his hankerchief to staunch the blood flow, they find themselves settling onto a park bench nearby. The two of them sit side by side, not talking, the detective inspector clearly hesitant to start asking questions. Sherlock sighs, the noise sounding more like a snort considering the fingers pinching his nose closed. 

“Lestrade, if you're quite done--”

“Does John know? Wait if you’re here and he’s not.. I’m guessing it wasn’t him texting me this morning?”

Sherlock gives a minute nod.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” Lestrade breathes, dragging a hand down his face, “so where is he?”

“In hospital. St. Bart’s, to be exact,” Sherlock says in a small voice.

Lestrade freezes. “Say that again?”

“John.. John’s in hospital. Two nights ago, he took his sleeping pills with the intention of overdosing.”

“Bloody hell, tell me he's alive!”

“He made it, just barely.”

“.. And you only just..er.. came back?”

“I was in Serbia taking care of some things. Mycroft had me flown in yesterday morning,” Sherlock replies, eyes trained somewhere, _anywhere_ Lestrade's eyes weren't. “Lestrade. I must know. How..how was he ever since..” he trailed off, finally meeting the D.I’s unsettled gaze. 

“What do you think, Sherlock? That he wasn't affected by your “death” at all? That he was not bothered by the fact that he watched his very _best friend_ step off the roof at Bart’s and that he was back to his happy self when your funeral was over and done with?”

Sherlock winces at each accusation thrown at him, knowing well enough to let the D.I go on interrupted. 

Lestrade continues, “You weren't there to see it. You didn't _see_ him. He outright refused to talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary. He barely left the flat. According to Mrs Hudson, he barely ate. She claimed that it was already one thing to keep you fed and healthy and yet she said that she’d never imagine that one day it would be John Watson whom she needed to basically persuade to even _drink tea_. When I go off duty, I open the door to 221B to the same John almost every time; quiet in his chair and staring at where you might be if you were playing the violin or sulking on the sofa. You have no idea of how _broken_ the man was without you..”

“Lestrade..”

“..and now here you are, large as bloody life, waltzing in, expecting everything to be back to normal?” 

Sherlock very rarely ever heard such seething anger in the D.I’s voice, yet, try as he might, he cannot bring himself to retort back. He could usually win an argument with some well-chosen words but this is one fight he has to concede to, out of sheer guilt and maybe self-hatred.

“I never meant for this to happen, alright? I did everything I did to _save_ you. My friends. You, Mrs Hudson, and John. Moriarty had a sniper aimed at each of your heads. That’s why I had to jump. You would have been killed unless the great Sherlock Holmes took his own life that day,” Sherlock explains, “but I admit I did not take into account the impact it would have on John. I predicted he would be a little bit more than upset but not like... _this_.”

“You don’t know anything about human nature, do you Sherlock? Not all of us are capable of recovering from a loss such as when we lost you,” the detective inspector fiddles with a leaf that had fallen into his lap, clearly unaccustomed to discussing sentiment with the consulting detective.

“I’ve been told.”

Silence enveloped the two of them, an uneasy presence threatening to swallow Sherlock whole.

Lestrade speaks up once more. “How is he?”

“Stable, for now. He, um, woke up last night. John didn’t take well to my presence,” Sherlock’s voice drifts off towards the end.

“As in?”

“He was convinced he was seeing a ghost.”

“Well, I don’t blame him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Lestrade blows out a breath. “The poor sod went in expecting to have taken his own life, and instead he wakes up very much _alive_ and face-to-face with the one friend he thought he’d lost a year ago. Any ordinary human being would be _livid_ , Sherlock.”

“John is far from ordinary.”

The D.I shoots him a sideways glance. “So the public have yet to know about your return then? Apart from those who've seen us and probably recognised you, that is?”

Sherlock mumbles an affirmative. 

Lestrade moves to get up. “Okay. Enough chit-chat. Bring me to John.”

* * *

The two men make their way to John’s room in mutual silence. Certain that it is quiet inside, Sherlock opens the door and lets Lestrade enter before him. He follows and gently nudges the door closed to find John awake and sitting upright, staring at him and Lestrade-- _no, just Lestrade, he’s avoiding looking at Sherlock at all_ \-- as they stop just inside the door, uncertain whether they should step any closer.

John clears his throat. “Greg.”

“John,” Lestrade acknowledges.

“What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing, you know.”

“Apparently despite being a doctor, I miscalculated my own overdose,” John shrugs, almost casually, as though disappointed at his failed suicide. “How’d you know I’m here?”

Lestrade shuffles his feet, unsure of how to reply, so he settles with tilting his head in Sherlock’s direction.

“Ah. Not a ghost, then.”

“Not quite, no.”

“You knew he wasn’t quite dead all this while?”

“Didn’t know until the bugger duped me into meeting this evening.”

“Fine. Out.”

Lestrade and Sherlock turn to leave.

“Not you, Greg.”

Sherlock looks back to see Lestrade giving him an apologetic look, so shoulders slumped in resignation, the detective leaves the room once more.

* * *

Sherlock paces outside John’s room, counting the minutes as they tick by. Ten minutes pass, and then twenty, and he can hear slightly raised voices, admittedly mostly coming from John. 

Sherlock takes in a deep breath, and releases it. In, out. In, out. The D.I steps out a few seconds later, face withdrawn, signalling for him to enter the hospital room.

“Hey,” Lestrade calls, resting his hand tentatively on Sherlock’s arm as he passes. “Just...be careful with him, will you? He has every right to be angry, and, just this once, think before you say anything.”

Sherlock nods once before pushing the door open again and back into John’s life.

***

The two men sit, both quiet, both uncomfortable with the tension in the room, and yet, neither man want to be the first to speak.

**Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.**

Sherlock decides he’s the one to break the silence. He owes John this much, so he voices aloud the one recurring thought that has been bouncing around his head from the very moment he stepped onto the plane that brought him back to London.

“John. I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

“I have half a mind to _not_ listen to you, but lucky for you, Greg said to give you a chance. For both our sakes. So, out with it,” John rasps out, voice utterly fragile.

Sherlock sneaks a glance up at his friend; his friend who is at the moment, still refusing to look him in the eye. He clears his throat, rearranging his response in his head. 

“Why?” John prompts, sounding exasperated now.

“I..”

“Why, goddammit!”

“I had no other choice, John. Moriarty was going to have you killed if--”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Sherlock swallows around the lump in his throat. He is unable to see where this conversation between them is going to go, and he does not like this feeling one bit.

“If you’d just _elaborate_ , it’d be of much help,” Sherlock just manages to eliminate the bite out of his normally snarky remark. John is in a delicate state, and sarcasm will undoubtedly only worsen the tension between them both.

“Almost two years, Sherlock. Greg has told me the basic idea of what made you jump,” John shirks at the last word, “but what I cannot get my head around is, _why_ you couldn’t have let me know that you were alive.”

_Ah._

“Did I mean that little to you?”

The detective flinches as if slapped, head whipping up to focus on the man on the hospital bed once more. John is still sitting up, hands shaking, paling from gripping the bedsheets too hard, but his gaze is now fully on him, eyes burning deep into Sherlock’s, bringing back to the surface every ounce of remorse and utter misery the detective had encountered since he sent out the fateful text to his brother the day he stepped off the roof of St. Bart’s.

“John, you know that’s not true.”

“Why, then?”

“It was essential that Moriarty’s network think that I was out of the picture before I went ahead and uprooted them from the inside. Only a _very_ small number of people were aware that I was very much alive. I couldn’t get you involved. Believe me, John, when I say I very much wanted you by my side, but there was too much at stake and we could not risk you giving me away..” Sherlock trails off, thinking that he should very well stop talking, because at that point John’s shoulders start to visibly shake.

Sherlock is certain that their current situation is not one warranting laughter, so he braces himself for the upcoming onslaught.

“Me..giving you away? You bastard. You and your brother both. Was this all originally Mycroft’s plan or yours? Him, I understand, mind you, because being the British government is a sturdy excuse for all the shit he puts everyone around him through, but you, you, Sherlock, could not for once _think_ with your head and consider what it could, and HAS done to me?”

“John, please--”

“No, shut up, Sherlock, and listen to me just this once, you hear me? I had _no one_ before I met you and moved in to Baker Street. I was struggling to make ends meet. I was alone. My own sister refused to see me. I had no one to turn to. The only familiar face I see on a frequent basis was my therapist, for god’s sake. I had no reason to live. Then one day I bump into Mike, and next thing I know, I’m chasing criminals down back alleys with you. You gave me a _purpose_. For once in my life I felt needed. I had a companion, and I was healing. I was broken before, but you mended me, Sherlock.”

The curly-haired man sits rooted to his chair, disbelieving of what he is hearing at the moment. Up until now, John has not explictly described their friendship to Sherlock besides through his blog, and Sherlock can only hang on to every single word his friend is saying.

John pauses to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. When he continues, his voice is weaker, heavy with words he seemed to be finding too hard to let out into the still air between them.

“When I ran up to our flat and found Mrs Hudson perfectly fine, I couldn’t quite believe what you’d just done. That you had deceived me just so you could make me watch from the sidelines as you fell to your death. Was your trust in me that insignificant that you would rather go after Moriarty alone? That you could not include me in your plans somehow? Did the past year of being partners in the Work not show you how much better we were as a _team_?”

“We were, and we still are.”

 

“Tell me then, because I really need to know. I needed to know why you left me behind when you knew that losing you..losing you, Sherlock, would..would” is all Sherlock registers before John promptly heaves a stuttering breath and starts hyperventilating on the bed.

He shoots off his seat and is at John’s side at an instant, the older man struggling to take in controlled breaths, his hands clenching and unclenching before pushing a fist into his chest. Sherlock sees his friend’s lips starting to whiten from being pinched together too hard, and John’s deep-blue eyes are dilated, eyelids flickering. 

“John, John!” Sherlock moves without thinking, grabbing the hand currently on the front of John’s hospital gown with the other rubbing John’s back, trying to rub comfort and calm into the skin. “John! Breathe, deep breaths in with your nose, out with your mouth. Come on, John, breathe!”

The other man’s eyes are still wide in panic, but as the seconds pass, his heaving chest start taking in less panicked breaths as the monitors at his bedside register the slowing of his quickened heart rate. As John calms in his almost-embrace, Sherlock makes out the telltale shimmering trails left behind by tears on the blond man’s cheeks, and as the shallow breaths even out, he can finally hear the little sobs that claw at his heart. 

“I’m here, John, I’m never leaving you behind again.”

John says nothing, continues to cry silently until his weakened body start slumping forwards. Sherlock glances over to see that the man’s eyelids have started to droop; his body having used up all its energy giving voice to all that pent-up anguish, and so Sherlock slowly, oh so gently pushes John’s body--way lighter than he appears-- backwards to lay on the bed once more. John almost immediately tilts his head and upper body away from Sherlock, as if still unwilling to let Sherlock see his compromised self. Sherlock lets him, gingerly pulling the covers over his friend’s shoulders and before he could do anything else, scampers away and back to his post by John’s bedside to ponder over his thoughts.

John’s breathing soon settles, and Sherlock’s beating heart slows to match those even breaths in restless harmony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to update this fic on a more regular basis but real life work is leaving me more exhausted than I expect at the end of the day. This greatly hinders my daily mission to be in the right mind to come up with something tangible, so bear with me a while, apologies!
> 
> All criticism is much appreciated, leaving a comment would help me more than you know. I can't be any more grateful for those who're planning to go on this roller coaster ride with me <3


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles to make sense of Sherlock's return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'ed nor bri- picked, so all mistakes made are my own :)

Sherlock spends the next two days wandering his mind palace, in a daze. He doesn’t quite know what he is hoping to achieve in there, but he makes do by reacquainting himself with John’s wing in the mind palace.

John barely talks.

On his fourth day in hospital, John’s attending physician comes in with good news. He is to be discharged the following morning, provided that he takes his antidepressants and continues to see his therapist now that it has been ascertained that his overdose was quite intentional. John flips the doctor his middle finger once he’s left. 

Sometime in those two days, Sherlock’s return is made official to the public. No one talks about where he has been all this while, and no one knows why he only chose to reappear now. Mycroft plays his part and makes sure it stays that way. 

John, who happened to be watching the telly when the “news” broke, switches it off and turns over back to sleep.

***

Sherlock wrings his hands, hovering nearby as he watches John pick up his duffle bag from the floor, getting ‘round to packing up his things for his release from the hospital. Their eyes meet for a split second before John focuses his attention back to his clothes. 

“Where will you be going, John?”

John continues stuffing his belongings into the bag, pointedly not answering the question.  
“Baker Street?” Sherlock suggests, hopeful yet knowing that the possibility is slim to none.  
The other man in the room heaves a tired sigh before replying with a rasp “No”. 

“John, you're not well. Where else can you go except Baker Street? I'm here now, aren't I, I can take care of you.”

John spins around at this last statement. His eyes are wide and his hand clenched tightly. 

“Take care of--? You see, that's the problem with you, Sherlock. You don't know when to leave a person alone. Especially when that person so clearly does not want your help, or your pity.”

“John, what are you talking about?” 

“Oh, for god's sake, I'm not going back to Baker Street, alright? I need to be alone! I need to be away from you, Sherlock, just so I can sort myself out. Don't come looking for me, I beg you. Please,” John says, looking more frail than ever, his jaw tightly clenched and unconsciously propping himself against the foot of the hospital bed. 

_His limp._

Sherlock gives a small nod in defeat. He knows it is pointless to argue with John; he just did not expect him to resort to _begging_. He sadly watches his friend zip up the bag and with not a single form of acknowledgement, John walks out the door. 

Sherlock stands there, looking at the hospital bed for what feels like eternity before he feels a persistent vibration in his pocket. He pulls out his phone and sees the incoming call from his brother. He swipes the screen and answers it. 

“Mycroft.”

“Hello, brother dear. How's John?”

“You know full well the answer to that question.” Sherlock lets loose a small roll of his eyes. 

“Indeed.”

“...and?” Sherlock probes expectantly. 

“I've got eyes on him. A stubborn one, isn't he?”

“Not stubborn. He's stronger than he looks,” Sherlock mutters. 

“In any case, I've got the rest of the operation handled and you can return to Baker Street. I'll drop you off. Mrs Hudson will no doubt be expecting you.”

“Best be off then.”

* * *

“Oh, Sherlock, is that really you?” Mrs Hudson cries out, arms already outstretched. 

The tall man steps hesitantly into his landlady’s embrace, dropping his bag and reciprocating with a squeeze of her shoulders. 

“Missed me?”

“What a silly question, of course I did,” Mrs Hudson sighs, “and John did too. What you did to the both of us was inexcusable, but what's done is done. Where's John, dear? I had quite the fright when I found him unconscious in your bedroom, you know. Is he alright now?”

Sherlock stops mid-embrace as Mrs Hudson’s words register in his mind. 

_His bedroom?_

“Yes, he was discharged this morning but will be.. elsewhere for the time being.”

“Why is it never straightforward with you two?” Mrs Hudson tuts. “Whatever it is he's doing, I hope he's alright, dear. Now up you go and get yourself sorted. I'll bring up some biscuits.”

Sherlock is nudged gently towards the staircase leading up to 221B. Up the seventeen steps he does, getting himself reacquainted with the wallpaper, the staircase railing and even the creaky stairs. The door to 221b stands slightly ajar. He pushes it open. 

Everything appears almost exactly the same as Sherlock had last seen the flat. The junk on the table John and Sherlock have their breakfast on to the knick knacks sitting on top of the fireplace; barely anything seems to have been disturbed at all in the past year. All except one major detail: John's laptop is open on the small table beside his favoured red armchair. 

Sherlock deposits his belongings at the entryway before making his way towards the laptop. He picks it up. (Sherlock never really bothers with something as trivial as privacy, especially when it comes to John.) The blank screen comes to life, displaying John's blog. He sees a blog post draft of considerable length. 

John often makes his innermost thoughts known through his blog when he's too tired to scream at Sherlock, but he does not publish the blog post in the end of course for he does not wish to chase away his avid readers with content that has nothing to do with a case the consulting detective is currently investigating. So with this, Sherlock reads. 

_To my good friend, Sherlock -_

_You told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times when I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this - you were the most_ human _human being and that no one could ever convince me that you told me a lie._

_Sherlock Holmes, for all that you were, you were human and utterly genuine._

_I could see it in your eyes every time you made a deduction. I see it when you play your violin. I could even see it when you're perched on your stool at the kitchen table in the morning, staring down the microscope lens, jotting down notes on your newest experiment. It was all real. Your brilliance, your skill, your ability to see things no one else could -- it was all there for me to witness, and witness I did._

_Sometimes I ask myself, Sherlock, how did I ever become so lucky? Yes, at this point you would have said that there is no such thing as luck, but what else could have been in play when I stumbled across you, you who brought me back from the brink of near self-destruction? What did Sherlock Holmes see in plain, old, John Watson that warranted you offering me a home and me becoming your partner in the Work? I had nothing to offer you back except maybe my impulse to run headlong in danger, and not forgetting, it is admittedly useful when said partner knows how to handle firearms when the occasion calls for it._

_I was withering away before I met you._

_You gave me purpose. You got rid of my limp, for god’s sake._

_You were beautiful, and brilliant, and the most important person in my life._

_Then you were gone, and I am lonely, and a broken shell of a man once again._

_I miss you._

_I miss you so much._

_One more miracle, Sherlock, for me._

_Just stop this._

_Don’t be dead._

Sherlock swallows around the hard lump in his throat, and his mouth goes dry, and only after he registers the presence of another being in the room that he turns around just in time to catch the crestfallen look flash across the face of the best friend he does not know he missed so much. Those dark blue irises flick downwards to the laptop being gripped tightly. The eyebrows above furrow, the crinkles in the forehead return. John clears his throat, gestures to the laptop.

“I’d like that back, please,” he says huskily.

“John,” Sherlock moves to get up from his spot on John’s armchair. (He does not remember sitting down, at all.)

“Give it here,” John all but strides forwards and yanks his laptop out of Sherlock’s grasp, turning on his heels towards the stairs leading up to his room. “I’m here to pack some clothes, is all. You won’t even know I’m gone.”

Sherlock stands, helplessly, at the bottom of the stairs, as John’s heavy steps sound as he ascends. He then hears the _thump, thump_ of items being thrown around and a bigger canvas bag being pulled from the top of John’s cupboard. 

_I want you to stay. Please, John. Stay._

He does not notice that he is staring at nothing in particular until his flatmate is at eye level, one bag slung over his good shoulder and hands gesturing for Sherlock to move out of the way.

“John.”

“I’m tired, Sherlock. Let me through.”

“No, please..”

“You left me behind once, don’t I have the right to do the same to you this time round?” John is simmering now.

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock whispers, throat tightening, his lungs threatening to give out on him. He reaches out to grasp onto the staircase railing. He refuses to let his misery show.

“It's just for a few days, Sherlock,” John sighs, the fight visibly leaving him. He maneuvers himself around Sherlock’s form, fetching his jacket from the coat hanger by the door. “I'll be back when.. when I'm ready for us to be back to normal. Meanwhile, you take care of yourself, yeah?” He turns to acknowledge his flatmate’s unmoving form. 

The detective can't bring himself to turn and look John in the eyes. _Look at what you've done,_ his mind supplies, _now John's doing to you what you did to him._ “S-sure John, I'll be here.. As always.” Sherlock whimpers. 

John gives a terse nod before descending the stairs, the unmistakable sound of the front door to 221 closing follows soon after. Sherlock steps forward just in time to catch sight of the familiar dirty-blond hair disappearing into a cab. His shoulders sag and his forehead slumps forward to rest against the window.

Is this is what dejection laced with self-hatred feels like?

* * *

Sherlock tries to distract himself from the John Watson-shaped hole in 221B by picking up his phone and inquiring through his brother the progress of the operation to take down the rest of Moriarty’s vast network. Irritably, Mycroft Holmes is nothing if not efficient and determined, and it is made known that they are literally one man away from completing the year-long covert operation.

Sherlock could have heaved a great sigh of relief, but he stops short. One man is still one too many. He reckons that all will be taken care of, so he instead resigns himself to sulking on the sofa in his default pose, his fingers steepled under his chin. It does not take long for his transport to trick him into a deep sleep.

He opens his eyes only to find himself back at the his first crime scene with John, except now he is looking at the scene in a bizarre third-person viewpoint. He is deducing the pink lady’s personal life and her affairs. Lestrade is nearby, arms crossed but listening intently. John is also there, a small smile on his lips slowly widening until he grins and lets loose a _“brilliant!”_. Mind Palace Sherlock replies with _”Do you know you do it out loud?”_ , to which Mind Palace John apologizes and is then told that it was all _fine_. 

Sherlock then sees himself at the bottom of the staircase leading up to 221b, ecstatic and high with adrenaline after running from the police together with John. He notices how the both of them were drawn to each other, barely an arm’s length apart, both cackling with ease and glee. The smiles on their faces were bright with promise, and the laugh lines on Mind Palace Sherlock's face were more pronounced than they had ever been. It was the start of a beautiful partnership, Sherlock dares admit. 

He watches intently as his mind replays for him the fondest memories stored of him and John in fast forward, until the images stop at the cemetery where Sherlock's burial was taking place. 

His parents are not there, having refused to knowing that their son was not really dead. Only a handful of guests attend, a few familiar faces along with some Sherlock could not quite recognise. _Past clients, maybe,_ Sherlock thinks. The coffin bearing Sherlock's “body” has been lowered, and John is standing at the head of the grave, head down, hands clasped at his front. 

Mrs Hudson approaches from behind, lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, says something into his ear. John’s shoulder twitches and she makes her leave with the rest of the guests. Sherlock watches as his grieving friend remains unmoving well into the evening,until the moment John's head comes up, hands rubbing fiercely at his eyes. Still in his default parade rest position, John talks to no one in particular. 

Sherlock sees John's reflection from the setting sun on his shiny, new, black tombstone, his name adorned in gold letters. 

It is a devastating sight to behold, and Sherlock lets out a shuddering exhale. He knows that that was the moment where he could have lost his best friend for good. 

Sherlock Holmes admires John Watson for many things: his strength, his patience, and his compassion, amongst other things. John Watson is a man not easily defeated, if he ever had a say in it. However, all it took for the ex-army doctor to crash and burn and lose his grasp on reality was seeing his _best friend_ smash his head into the pavement at St. Bart’s and witness said friend bleed all over the concrete. John Watson became an irrevocably broken man that day forth. 

Sherlock can't be certain if he can salvage this, but damn it to hell, he will make sure that John never has to face such agony ever again. He shoves the memories into the locked uppermost compartment of the drawer in John's wing of his mind palace, strides over to the exit, and pulls the door open. 

***

“Mycroft, brother dear. John's location, if you'd please.”

“Of course.”

***

The pale, curly haired man in the long coat stands hidden in the shadows of the alley opposite the modest hotel Mycroft had provided the name of. It is two days since John left 221B behind -- the weather has been bleak at most, the clouds refusing to give way to even the brief respite of sunlight. 

He eyes the familiar figure limping his way out the front door of the hotel and down the street towards a pub he recognises as one of John's favourite haunts. Sherlock keeps to the shadows, bearing in mind that being ex-military, John still possesses a fierce instinct when he senses that he is being followed. 

The blond man pulls the door to the pub open. The rowdy noises from within float into the otherwise quiet street. Sherlock retreats into the adjoining alley and settles in for the long wait. 

Exactly 129 minutes and 15 seconds later, Sherlock is just about to doze off standing in the dark when he hears the telltale stumbling of someone clearly too inebriated to keep himself upright. He shifts backwards, as far away from the mouth of the alley as possible. He sees John, clearly more drunk than he would have normally allowed himself, making his way back to the hotel. Sherlock's hands itch to reach out and steady the man, but he keeps himself at a distance, just barely. As John makes it to the hotel lobby and presses the lift button, Sherlock hangs back to ascertain as to which floor John’s room is located. 

He sprints up the stairs, the feat made easy by his long legs, trusting that John has a ways to go to actually reach his room in his drunken state. 

_John normally holds his alcohol well,_ Sherlock considers, _but what changed?_

At the ninth floor, Sherlock stops himself just in time to see John fumbling with the lock to his room and nudging the door open with his whole body. Just before the door returns to its latch, Sherlock pushes it open and lets himself in. 

He stops dead in his tracks, and before either of them can make sense of what happened, Sherlock lunges forward to slap the bottle of sleeping pills from John's outstretched hand. John emits a howl of pain as he is knocked off balance and lands on the floor on his bad shoulder. 

“John! Are you trying to get yourself killed again?!” Sherlock screeches, scrambling onto his knees and reaching out to help John. 

“Sh..Shr’lock?” John slurs, rolling onto his good side. “Fucking.. that hurts!”

He bats away Sherlock’s helping hand, instead pulling himself up and backwards to sit against the foot of the bed. He winces, cradling his left arm close to his chest. Evidently the fall managed to knock some lucidity into John as he trains his eyes on Sherlock once more. His gaze holds steady. 

“What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

“I..I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay, John,” Sherlock replies, adjusting himself and sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite his friend. “Which apparently isn’t the case.” 

“Oh?”

“Your drinking, John.”

“What about it?” 

“You rarely ever let yourself get this drunk. I know you don’t. You said you were better than that, better than your sister.”

“Well people have always said one could drink his troubles away..” John shrugs.

“Ok, forget the drinking, what are you doing with those sleeping pills? Planning to take some more, were you?” Sherlock is thrumming with anxiety now, “Alcohol intoxication accompanied with another drug overdose? Really, John? Hoping for me to stumble across you foaming at the mouth if only I didn’t choose to stalk you to your room at the opportune moment?”

“Fuck yy-you.” John is leaning forwards now, finger jabbing accusingly at Sherlock’s direction. “Didn’t I s-say the other day to not come find me? Leave me alone. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Sherlock stands abruptly, fighting the urge to shake some sense back into John. “.. And clearly you’ve been doing such a _good job_ of it!” he bites back only to realise too late that what he has said was probably uncalled for. He retreats to the door. 

“You made me this way, why can’t you see that, Sherlock?!”

Those scathing words squeeze the air out of the consulting detective’s lungs as he flees down the corridor and into the night. He does not look back.

The broken man on the hotel room floor stares at the open door. He staggers to his feet to close it and then proceeds to the bathroom to turn the shower on. He steps into the scalding hot spray without bothering with his clothes.

John Watson’s tears of frustration mix with the droplets of bathwater as they disappear down the drain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think! Forgive me if the characters come across as OOC, I'm trying to stay true to their characters but the angst-ing may be hindering that a bit :3


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance to make amends with John comes up at the worst of times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a despicable human being. Updates will now come every two weeks, I promise.
> 
> A/N: The fic was previously titled "I Want It All" but has since changed to as you can now see - "My Heart Holds On To You" because that's what Johnlock is all about yeah.
> 
> This fic is unbeta'ed nor brit'picked! Please let me know what you think of the fic so far in the comments below, much appreciated <3

Sherlock slams the door to 221B closed in his wake, Mrs Hudson’s concerned questions doing nothing to lessen his guilt. 

He feels raw; torn apart with the torrent of emotions he is unable to process in order to think straight, to think like how he has conditioned himself to ever since he accepted that he did not fit in with the other children at the tender early age of eight. He had no friends, and it was frankly fine by him. He thought lesser of the others for bothering with petty little things like crushes and cliques and companionship. He was fine with fending for himself. He did not try to befriend anyone, and in turn, no one bothered to interact with him. Even his teachers soon declared him a lost cause, often turning red-faced and downright refusing to teach the boy who thought himself better than his peers, and essentially everyone else in the school.

Sherlock Holmes never needed a friend, or so he thought he did, until his early twenties, when he dropped out of university, drifting in and out of the streets in a drugged haze. Mycroft had then reached out with an unwelcome hand and arranged for a chance meeting between Sherlock and Detective Inspector Lestrade from New Scotland Yard. The elder Holmes sibling for once looked up to the skies hoping for the best; his fears were soon allayed when Lestrade agreed to let Sherlock hone his skills on their investigations in exchange with the promise that Sherlock would cooperate with efforts to rid him of his drug addict mentality.

Crime scenes provided him with a different kind of high, and slowly but surely, Sherlock weaned himself off the urge to feed his mind with the toxic properties of cocaine. He took to smoking instead, which Mycroft said nothing of. Anything but the drugs, he’d shrugged, and then sank back into the watchful eye of elder brother, hidden behind cameras that trailed Sherlock’s every movement on the streets of London.

So there he was for the next couple years, prancing around dead bodies and insulting the officers of NSY, revelling in his newfound love for The Work. Yet through it all, Sherlock Holmes still had no friends, save for Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper and Lestrade. At least he thought they were the closest he had to actual friends. 

Then along came John Watson, former army doctor, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock could not make sense of the stranger who became his flatmate within the first 24 hours of being introduced to each other. He found himself seeking John’s companionship in the Work and even came to appreciate the quiet domesticity that took over 221B Baker Street. Over time, his initial feelings for his flatmate evolved from mutual respect to fondness and longing, though requited or not, Sherlock isn’t sure he’d ever get to find out. 

Having convinced himself for so long that he was a sociopath and a man divorced of all feeling, a year later, as he was standing there on the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital looking down at the blonde figure on the street, the realisation dawned on him that he was about to follow a madman’s demands in order to save the lives of the ones he cared about.

Sherlock Holmes was a changed man from the time John came into his life -- that much was true.

Sherlock rips off his scarf and tugs off his coat, dropping heavily into his armchair, only to stand up again and pull out his violin. He does the necessary tuning and rosins his bow before pulling out empty music sheets with a heavy sigh. For the next three days, 221B Baker Street is filled with a sad, haunting melody, its sole occupant running on close to no sleep at all, instead choosing to look wistfully out the window, waiting for someone who may or may not come back.

Outside 221B, life goes on.

* * *

Sherlock does not pester his brother for John’s whereabouts. If John insists on being left alone, then so be it. He's learned long ago that being persistent does not always get him what he wants. 

Instead he spends his time conducting aimless experiments and ignoring the food Mrs Hudson makes for him. He keeps his phone nearby at all times in case someone from his homeless network has news on John. He is trying his best, he really is, to give John his space and so his network will act as his eyes on the streets to ensure the good doctor does not run into trouble, especially in his compromised state. They’ve almost always had each other to back them up whenever they were out on a case, so knowing that John is vulnerable, and on his own against who knows out there in the streets of London is enough to keep the detective almost ready to jump out of his skin.

A monotone voice cuts through the still air of the flat. “Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock looks up to the suited man at the door and gets up, his dressing gown trailing after him. One of Mycroft’s many guards, he wordlessly holds out a disc which Sherlock promptly grabs and waves the man away with a cursory flick of his wrist. He turns and pauses, hearing the almost-muted footsteps as they descend the stairs and closes the door behind him. Fetching his laptop, Sherlock settles into his chair with a thump and inserts the disc into the reader on his laptop, drumming his fingers impatiently on the arms of his chair as he waits for the disc to show him what he wants.

The black screen crackles to life, playing the footage Mycroft had recorded of that fateful night almost a week earlier when he had almost lost John. He sees four different viewpoints; Mycroft was kind enough to save him the time and had specifically cut the recordings to the relevant footage. Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he registers John’s slumped form, all in grayscale, on the camera that was aimed towards the sofa in the sitting area.

He sees that John's shoulders were shaking badly, constantly swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. His body started trembling, then, before he was on his feet and stumbling forward towards Sherlock's armchair. There he stood, just like he did at Sherlock's grave. It is only because of his inebriated state that John could barely manage to keep true to his parade rest posture. Sherlock can barely make it out but John's mouth was definitely moving; unfortunately Mycroft's surveillance did not support audio. 

Sherlock watches as the John on camera reaches out an unsteady hand to touch, just fleetingly, the arm of Sherlock’s chair. He rubs the smooth surface back and forth, face an unreadable expression. His knees give out and he buckles to the floor, his hand still in contact with the chair. It is that moment that Sherlock sees John shatter to innumerable pieces, his chest heaving and silver streaks just barely visible running down his face. 

Sherlock looks away. He cannot watch this part; his chest tightens with guilt to have to witness his dearest friend be so thoroughly affected by his “death”. Watching as John falls apart is almost mocking, a slap to the face. If Sherlock ever regretted not including John in his plans from that fateful day, well, now he did, and he doesn’t know if he can ever forgive himself for having caused so much pain to the people he holds most dear - John, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson.

 _I’ll only forgive myself if John forgives me_ , Sherlock sighs inwardly.

He glances up at the computer screen just in time to see John pick himself up off the floor and stagger to the small table by the window. He picks up a small bottle from the surface; _His sleeping pills_ , Sherlock guesses. Clutching the bottle as best he can with his shaking hands, John turns back to look at Sherlock’s chair, giving a resolute nod just like how a soldier would salute a fallen comrade. With that he headed down the corridor to Sherlock’s room. The recording switches to the one overlooking said corridor, watching as John drags himself through the open door and closes it behind him.

There is no camera footage available of the interior of Sherlock’s room as he had disabled the only one Mycroft had attempted to sneak in there - there are boundaries Sherlock wished Mycroft would respect, after all. 

The time stamp on the same camera skips ahead to a mere hour later where Sherlock looks on in horror as a barely conscious John is wheeled from his room on a gurney, his shirt visibly marred by what was most likely vomit. Mrs Hudson had plastered herself to the wall, visibly shaken by the horrifying picture before her, her hand fluttering from her chest and to her temple, back and forth, back and forth.

His vision starts to swim. Getting to his feet, Sherlock slams the laptop shut and heads to the coat hanger. He thunders his way down the stairs and into the frigid London air.

* * *

“Lestrade!”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, is it so hard for you to at least knock my door before you barge in like that? I could’ve gotten a bloody heart attack,” Lestrade scolded, seating himself at the desk so he could nurse his coffee before something else demanded his attention.

“No matter. Now, what can you tell me about John after I jumped off the roof?”

The DI fixes the younger man with a glare. “What? Oh.. Er, he was upset?”

“Yes, that much was obvious. I assume you and he still hung out at the pub regularly?”

Greg nodded. 

“Did he seem...off to you? Anything he did out of the ordinary?”

“Well besides the fact that he looked horrid, you mean. He managed to tip back more beers than I’d ever seen him care to drink in one night, though, but who can blame him? That man looked like he needed it.”

“Right,” Sherlock sighed.

“What about it, Sherlock? Is John alright?”

“Frankly, detective inspector, I don’t know. I’ve… I’ve not seen him in a week now,” Sherlock answered, pacing the room, hands thrumming with nervous energy. “I don’t know what he’s planning to achieve, holing himself up in a hotel room somewhere he thinks I can’t find him.”

“Poor sod,” Lestrade winces, blowing out a breath. “I take it you’re giving him the space he needs then?”

“Yes, as much as I loathe saying it, I’m leaving it to him to decide when he’s ready to return home. I’m not forcing him to do anything, if it meant there would still be a chance he can put this behind him and move on.”

“It’s not that easy, Sherlock.”

“He… he’ll come ‘round, I’m sure of it… And until that happens, I want back in on your cases. I need distractions.” Sherlock turns to face Lestrade. “Call me as soon as a new one comes in.”

“Yeah.. yeah, alright.”

* * *

It is barely a day later when Lestrade calls Sherlock with the promise of a triple murder.

It is barely a day later when Mycroft texts Sherlock with news that John was spotted standing at the same spot where Sherlock’s body had lain on the pavement almost two years prior. He acknowledges the message and closes it. There is point in needing to interfere. His showing up unannounced at the pavement outside St’ Bart’s will not help a thing.

* * *

Chasing particularly murderous suspects down dark, narrow alleys is inherently safer when done alongside someone to back you up. This is what flashes through Sherlock's mind as he darts around another corner, scrambling to catch up with the escapee, Lestrade’s footfalls echoing off the concrete walls a quarter of a mile behind him. 

“For god’s sake- Hurry up would you?!” Sherlock screeches. 

“Obviously I'm not as nimble as I used to be- just my luck I wasn't gifted with long legs!” Lestrade protests. 

Sherlock ignores him and turns his head just in time to avoid crashing into a fence. The murderer is already on the other side and about to slip through his grasp. “Oh no you don't,” Sherlock snarls, launching himself onto a nearby precarious-looking ledge and swinging his legs up and over the fence. As he clears the landing, he hears the brick give way and a curse escape the detective inspector, who did not manage to follow suit. 

“Go! I'll find another way ‘round!” Lestrade huffs but the younger man is already out of earshot. 

Sherlock flies forward, just barely missing the silhouette of the suspect as it darts inside another narrow alley. It starts to thunder overhead, the rumbling shaking Sherlock to his very core. Chasing a suspect in the rain is not in his best interests however, so Sherlock tunes out for a split second, scans through a map of the surrounding area in his head, and satisfied with the alternative route he's discovered, takes off running at a different direction from his target. 

Four sharp turns and three dashes across thankfully-empty roads later, Sherlock catches up to the suspect and succeeds in cornering him into a dead end. The man twists around to face the consulting detective, eyes darting around, looking for the best route of escape. 

Sherlock bounces on his heels, content to let the suspect come to terms with the fact that he has no chance whatsoever of evading capture again. As he stands there, basking in self-proclaimed victory and looking smug, Sherlock fails to notice the gun that appeared at the murderer's side until the telltale click of the safety makes itself known and the ear-piercing sound of the gun going off catches Sherlock off-guard. 

In the split second that it would have taken the bullet to fly through the air and pierce Sherlock square in the chest, a sturdy body slams itself into his side instead, absorbing the impact of the bullet and sending Sherlock crashing into the brick wall lining the alley. 

His head smacks with a sickening _thud_ against the wall, and Sherlock stumbles unsteadily on his feet, clutching his head as he struggles to find his bearings. His vision starts to swim, and he barely registers the _bang_ of another gun discharging and the frantic shout that follows after. 

Momentarily thrown off balance, Sherlock drags his head to squint at the spot where the murderer stood mere seconds before, before his eyes land on the barely-moving figure slumped on its knees and curled in on itself on the ground just two metres away from him.

Scant seconds later, the man collapses onto his side, facing Sherlock. 

Sherlock feels his legs give out under him. His eyes widen, his heart gives a sudden lurch.

_John?_

His body reacts without thinking; he dives forward onto the unforgiving concrete, scrambles onto his knees, his hands uncertain and shaking as they hover over the injured form of his friend. His chest is heaving panicked breaths and his head starts to throb. 

“John? Oh god-, John!”

“Sher-.. Sherlock? What’d I tell you about running off without backup, huh?” John answers, wincing, breathing hard through his nose, his eyelids fluttering and looking like he's trying his best to stay awake. 

“Well, I would've waited but you weren't with me this time,” Sherlock blurts out, realising too late that what he's said was a bit _not good_. He bites his lip and avoids John's gaze, nudging the shorter man over until he sees John's hand where it's clutching the front of his shirt. A good part of it is painted an angry red, and still the blood spreads, spilling free onto the ground. “How, how do I stop it, oh god, John, show me _how_ -”

“Shh, I’ll be fine, you big oaf, just, just, help me press here, and keep me awake, yeah?” John tries his best to reassure Sherlock, automatically switching to the role of caregiver despite being the injured party in this situation. “OW, hey, not too hard!”

“Sorry...sorry!” Sherlock blurts out, looking up and spotting Lestrade at the mouth of the alley, beckons him over. “I need an ambulance!”

“Is that.. John? Good god, what happened?!” Lestrade runs over, one hand already calling for the paramedics.

“He went and got himself shot, the idiot,” Sherlock grits through clenched teeth, looking down and shifting John so his head is cradled in Sherlock’s lap. He continues applying pressure on the gunshot wound, watching John like a hawk. To his horror, he sees John’s eyelids starting to droop and the rise and fall of his chest decreasing in frequency. “John, John! You need to stay awake!” he panics, cradling John’s face, nudging it to face him where he pleads silently through his eyes, for John to be okay, that everything will be okay, that he is- “I’m sorry, oh god I’m so sorry, John, please forgive me, I need you, _I need you_ -”

He feels John’s hand come up to grip Sherlock’s wrist and squeeze, and those cobalt blue eyes he loves so much meets his own, pained grimace widening into a what he can only describe as a fond smile. “Good to know,” the man has the audacity to joke, “but I’m not going anywhere, yeah? Sh- Sherlock, I’ll be fine, I think I need to sleep a while, but I’m not going anywhere, I’ve survived a bullet before, didn’t I?”

“You are unbelievable, you know that?” Sherlock admonishes, looking around anxiously- _where is that ambulance?_ \- daring John to close his eyes on him.

“Says the world’s only consulting detective and downright git,” John slurs, his head lolling to the side and hand no longer pressing firmly on Sherlock’s where they are trying their best to staunch the blood flow. 

“No, you are not doing this to me, John Watson, stay with me, or I’ll kill you myself-” Sherlock roars over the approaching sirens of the ambulance, but John is no longer responding. Before he has the chance to do anything else, Sherlock is pushed aside by paramedics who haul his limp friend onto the gurney and have him loaded into the ambulance. Lestrade pushes Sherlock forwards into the waiting vehicle - “This one’s with him,” he nods to one of the paramedics - and the consulting detective, mute with shock, settles as far away from John as possible as they worked to keep his friend’s heart beating. He looks down at his hands where they are dripping with blood, John’s blood, and he thinks, with an air of finality, _never again_.

* * *

John pulls through, just as he promised, but Sherlock doesn’t feel any less angry at himself, at John, at the whole world, pretty much, for putting him in this situation. As he sits upright on the chair by John’s bedside, a nurse patiently bandaging his head where he had sustained a nasty bit of bruise from slamming into the brick wall after his initial protests at being examined, Sherlock thinks long and hard, running through all the endless times from before where either of them had come close to knocking on death’s door.

None of them had been this bad. Sherlock reckons his dive off the roof of St. Bart’s doesn’t really count, anyway.

The nurse finishes up, gathers her supplies, and leaves the two men alone, the quiet _click_ of the door following in her wake.

It has been an hour since John was wheeled out of surgery. He’s lucky the bullet just missed his liver, the doctor had been quick to reassure, and that other than the blood loss that was quickly fixed, everything looks good, and John will be right as rain in a matter of hours. 

This is unacceptable. 

“Never again,” Sherlock whispers, pulling himself off the chair and forwards to hover over his friend’s sleeping, relaxed form. His head dips, warm breath ghosting over John’s face as he presses his lips to John’s forehead, where it lingers, Sherlock’s eyes falling closed, pouring his sorrow and affections into the kiss, before he pulls back before anyone could walk in at that moment and catch him in that uncharacteristic act of sentiment.

Sherlock settles back into the chair, observing John’s silhouette against the brightening hue of the London sky outside the window. He has stayed awake for days on end for cases before, so preparing himself to keep a bedside vigil 24/7 for John is not a hardship.

He sits unmoving, eyes still very much staring at nothing in particular and fingers steepled under his chin as doctors and nurses hover in and out of the room to check on John’s progress. He spends time carefully reorganizing everything in John’s wing of his mind palace as he starts taking into account the recent turn of events. 

Sherlock is startled out of his reverie a few hours later by the shuffling of hospital sheets and his name being called out questioningly.

“Sherlock?”

“John.”

“God, how long have I been out?” John peers up at him, attempting to sit up, only to gasp in pain, noticing the large bandage decorating the lower front half of his torso.

“Take it easy John, you shouldn’t be moving for a while yet,” Sherlock scolds, gently, laying a hand on John’s shoulder, coaxing him to lie back down against the sheets. “You came out of surgery five hours ago. The bullet almost nicked your liver and you lost quite a lot of blood, but other than that you’ll be fine.”

“Right. Sorry about that, by the way,” John points gingerly to Sherlock’s bandaged head.

“What are you saying sorry for? John, you… you almost died saving my life! A bruised head has nothing on a bullet wound!” Sherlock all but shouts into the quiet hospital room. “What were you doing trailing me in the first place? As far as I can recall, _you_ asked me to keep my distance!”

“Because,” John answers, calm external demeanour betraying the simmering anger in his eyes as they lock with cobalt grey ones, “the last time I wasn’t there by your side, you made me watch while you fell to your death. I couldn’t do a bloody thing while you were lying there already half-dead. Don’t you dare tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done!”

John breaks eye contact to stare out the window, throat constricting, eyelids fluttering. Sherlock only looks on in horror as moisture wells up and spills over to trail down John’s cheeks. The ex-soldier sobs quietly on the bed, his small body wrecked in spasms as Sherlock watches, too afraid to reach out to offer comfort to his friend, his flatmate, the only person in this world he would have done anything, anything at all, to keep happy. 

He’d failed as a friend, making all the wrong decisions, unknowingly peeling John Watson apart piece by piece until the man is raw from emotion and possibly, even worse off than the person he was before Mike Stamford had pulled a miracle and brought them together. Sherlock is, - or _was_ , he does not dare hope - John’s only companion in the harsh reality of life in London. He had assumed wrongly as to the extent of John’s loyalty, taking the older man for granted until it is here, in this cold, graveyard-quiet hospital room that Sherlock doubts he could ever regain John’s trust and friendship.

“Never again,” Sherlock says, to no one in particular.

The muffled crying comes to a stop. John’s head turns slightly in Sherlock’s direction, his hand still braced against his face, where it is wiping away the rest of the stray tears and rubbing exhausted eyes.

“What?” John croaks, his voice giving away his fragile state.

Sherlock clears his throat, willing his heart to cease its endless throbbing before he repeats, “Never again. This cannot happen again. John, you deserve better. I don’t know what it is you see in me but no one should have to put up with the kind of life I lead; I take pleasure in nothing but putting myself in harm’s way every other day. I’m not normal. I drag myself down and everyone I know with me. I’m an addict. The words that come out of my mouth are useful for nothing but driving other people away. I can’t even take care of myself, let alone a flatmate. You deserve more, you deserve a better companion who doesn’t keep you up at night with pointless violin music and who doesn’t have the decency to separate body parts from the edible food in the fridge. You deserve a friend who doesn’t go around luring in other psychopaths. I’m no good for you, so I don’t understand why you’re still going around looking out for me-” 

Sherlock paused, brain whirring in an endless loop as he discovers the warm, calloused palm pressed against his own.

He looks up and sucks in a deep breath as he sees that intense blue gaze boring into his own. The worry lines aren’t there; instead a new set of lines crinkle the familiar forehead and mouth pulled wide in a rare smile.

Sherlock has seen this look before on John’s face - that time when they were giggling unashamedly in Buckingham Palace, after they’d chased a taxi across London for the first time without John’s cane slowing him down, and endless times after Sherlock had solved a crime of notable difficulty and John, beaming up at him and singing endless praises of awe and admiration.

The look on John’s face softens. He opens his mouth.

“I don’t need all that. I need _you_.”


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is always so simple, and so complicating, to accept an apology.” ― Michael Chabon

Sherlock stares out the window, gaze unfocused and mind focused on something else entirely as the black car makes its way towards Baker Street. He glances nervously to his left where John sits, silent with his eyes closed, the man taking every chance he gets to doze off and regain his energy. Their hands sit side by side on the space between the two, little fingers barely centimeters apart.

Sherlock is itching to reach forwards a little and have their hands touch. He is unsure of who the action is supposed to reassure - ultimately he concludes that it’d have done a world of good to the both of them to know that the other is there, still breathing.

John makes a tiny groan in his sleep; the moment is broken, and Sherlock’s hand retreats to the safety of his own lap. He looks out to see that they have arrived outside the familiar black door of 221B Baker Street. Slowly, Sherlock opens the door and lets himself out, walking over to the other side of the car, pulling John’s door open and gently shakes his friend awake.

“John.”

“Mmph?”

“We’re here. Baker Street.”

“Wha-? Oh,” John slurs, opening his eyes, staring at Sherlock before blinking a few more times as he registers that the car has stopped.

“Come on, up you go,” Sherlock prompts, gently laying a hand on John’s forearm and another on the small of his back. He knows John does not like to be coddled, so he applies the slightest pressure to guide John forward and sideways to exit the car, taking care to avoid the front of John’s torso, where it is still too tender and wrapped up in bandages.

The driver of the car has taken the liberty of unloading their few belongings from the hospital stay and is currently waiting patiently as Sherlock walks John onto the pavement. Fishing his keys out of the pocket, he lets them in, watching as John pulls away from his hold and goes up the staircase on his own, his right hand in a death grip on the balustrade.

That same hand had been clasped around Sherlock's in a hospital room just two days before - cold fingers pressed against warm ones, a pulse barely felt as John's finger brushed against Sherlock's wrist. John had said nothing then, just relinquished his hold with a small nod before laying back against the pillows and closing his eyes, his breathing eventually slowing to a steady pace as sleep claimed him once more. 

Sherlock had mostly been shocked into silence for the rest of the hospital stay, lingering quietly at the back of the room as John ate his meals and had his bandages checked over nurses, his progress discussed with doctors. 

He stands there now, in the foyer, glad that John had not as much as protested to the idea of returning to Baker Street. He is in no state to live elsewhere alone. He only has Sherlock now - Harry is as good as out of the picture. The last Sherlock had heard of her was the night a couple of months ago when John had invited her out for some catching up over dinner. 

John had returned in a very sour mood and stormed up to his room without as much as a greeting for Sherlock. The next morning was fraught with tension and Sherlock was wise to keep his thoughts to himself, choosing to leave it be. Harry's name was very rarely brought up, after that. 

He trails after John as they step into the familiar comfort of 221B, of _home_. 

“Tea?” Sherlock offers. 

John looks up at him in surprise, half-frozen from where he is easing himself onto the sofa. Sherlock knows that tea does well to help John relax, and while he rarely ever prepares the tea on a daily basis - that particular role having ever been John's - he does not mind doing something so utterly _domestic_ once in a while if it meant it would please his friend. 

He'd do anything for John, really. 

“Uh.. Yeah, that'd be great, thanks,” John answers with a smile that grows brighter each second Sherlock spends gazing at him. 

Sherlock clears his throat, nods, and sets about filling the kettle, listening to the telltale shuffling behind him as John reclines and makes himself comfortable on the sofa. He stands there for the 8 minutes and 20 seconds it took for the water to boil, mulling over how to best do this: break the ice, and not jeopardize the impossible second chance he has been given with John. 

He prepares John's cup of tea just as he likes it - assuming John's taste has not changed in the 2 years Sherlock's been gone, but then again, assuming isn't something Sherlock will ever admit to doing - and brings his along to the sitting room where he places it in his flatmate’s outstretched hands. 

“Thank you, Sherlock. God, how I miss making the tea all the time,” John comments almost absently. Sherlock only _hmm’s_ in timid agreement, retreating to his leather armchair where he sips primly at his cup. 

Silence befalls 221B once more. He feels John's gaze on him, accusing and unsettling. His heart feels heavy, weighed down with the burden of a thousand unspoken words hanging in the air between them. Sherlock wants, no, he knows he _needs_ to say something, but his voice alludes him and so he tries to convince himself that the pain of what’s to come will dissipate the longer he avoids the topic at hand.

“So.”

John’s voice startles him, as he’s thought that he was the one who should have said something first.

“Yes, John?” he answers, uncertain and treading the conversation with care.

“Here I am, back at Baker Street, just like you wanted, yeah?” John says, his voice set at a casual tone, as if he had just announced that he was back from a grocery run.

“It would seem so, though to be accurate, it should be the other way around. I was the one who was gone for.. Quite a while. You, on the other hand, were not here for a total of, oh, almost a week.”

“Let me rephrase it then. _We’re_ back at Baker Street.”

A tiny nod is all Sherlock can manage.

“Right. Sherlock… If we’re to do this, pretend the last two years never happened, the least we can do is promise not to lie to each other. Do you think you can do that?”

It takes a while for Sherlock to nod another affirmative. He picks up his cup and downs the rest of the scalding hot tea in one go.

“Okay. I’ll start first,” John says, settling back onto the cushions. “Who else were in on your planned “demise”?

“Mycroft, Molly and some people from my homeless network,” Sherlock answers, straight to the point.

“Molly?!” John huffs. “How could she know and I didn’t get to be part of it?”

“She.. I needed her to provide a body.. The one that actually landed on the pavement, before I took its place and later on it was stored in the morgue under my name. It was also the body you saw at the funeral service.” 

“All this time I thought she was sharing in on my grief, when it turns out she’s been lying to me too.” 

“Don’t blame her, John. I was the one who approached her for help because I knew she was the one person Moriarty would overlook when he threatened you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. He made the mistake of thinking Molly was of no significance to me, when really, she was instrumental to the success of my plan. It was hard on her as well, having to actively deceive everyone else.”

“Fine. Well, none of it matters anymore,” John says with a heavy sigh.

Sherlock takes it that that particular topic is over so he voices his question next. “John, why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“The other night, when you.. When you tried to take your own life. Why did you do it?”

John lets out an audible sigh. “There was nothing else in this world for me to look forward to. You were gone, and it got harder and harder to step into 221B and see your chair empty and the kitchen table devoid of experiments and the fridge no longer reeking of decaying body parts. Work became more mundane than I thought possible and I was right back to where I was before I met you: alone in a flat to fend for myself and struggling to make sense of each day that passes. Greg was there, sure, to keep me company during our customary weekly pub nights but even that got few and far in between as time passed. I could see myself drifting away from everything and everyone I knew. So I thought, there was no point in living, really, when the one person who made you feel alive and needed on this earth was gone forever. You were gone, Sherlock, and it took me a harrowing two years to convince myself that I was better off dead than to drag my sorry arse out of bed each day and face an empty flat. I was already well pissed when I got home from the pub that night, so what the hell, I thought, why not get it over with?”

Sherlock looks up in horror when he hears John’s breathing hitch and his words sounding garbled.

John chokes out, hand trembling where it is pressed over his mouth: “My sleeping pills were just there. Those things helped me sleep, sure, but they made it almost impossible to escape the nightmares when they hit. I…. I kept seeing your bloodied face on the pavement, Sherlock. When I was in Afghanistan, seeing bodies of civilians and even those of my fallen comrades never plagued me in my sleep, but _you_ did. I couldn’t decide which was worse; awake and to see myself surrounded by proof of your absence, or asleep but only to be reminded of what I thought was my ultimate failure, watching you step off that roof. It just felt right to be done with everything that night. There was no point in living without you. You, and your brilliance and otherworldly self. _I loved you,_ and I wished you had taken me with you. So. There. I’ve said it.”

“J- John?” Sherlock whispers, unaware that he’d got up off his chair and is now kneeling on the floor next to John’s head, his hand outstretched and placing the lightest of touches on John’s arm. “I.. I don’t..”

“I get it. It was stupid of me to say that. You’re a _sociopath_. You don’t feel any of those things.” John bristles, nudging Sherlock’s hand away and pushing himself up and off the sofa.

“John, wait-” 

“I’m going upstairs,” John pauses, rubbing the stray tears off his face. “I need to sleep this off. Feel free to leave me alone. Go do whatever you want. Go out, solve a case, do your experiments - I don’t care. I think it’s best we steer clear of each other until I feel I’m ready to do this again.”

He starts up the staircase to his room, slowly but surely, not bothering to look behind until the door is shut firmly behind him, leaving an open-mouth detective at the bottom of the stairs.

_John?_

* * *

For the next few days, the two flatmates walk on eggshells, not daring to say anything in the fear of shattering the careful bubble of silence they had built within the four walls of the flat. Sherlock leaves his room every morning to find a cooling cup of tea and fresh toast with eggs waiting for him on the table, but John is still conspicuously nowhere to be seen, probably walking aimlessly through London, somewhere. He worries about John in his compromised state, but he trusts that Mycroft is keeping an eye on him and will raise an alert if something awry were to happen.

In the late afternoon, when Sherlock happens to be lying supine on the couch in his customary thinking pose, or hunched over the kitchen table documenting a crucial phase of his current experiment, he would hear John’s unstable gait coming up the stairs and straight up to his room, with not as much as a simple greeting offered as he passes the main floor of the flat. 

They don’t acknowledge what happens behind John’s bedroom door when London is blanketed in the dark and the moon sits high in the night sky.

Every day since they returned, in the middle of the night, if he happens to be lying all spread out in bed, fighting his body's need for sleep, Sherlock hears them; The thumping sounds, followed by the shuffling of bedsheets around a restless body.

A silent minute or two.

Then, the muffled groaning starts. Sherlock’s heart clenches painfully as his ears register John’s tormented voice, calling out a name.

 _Sherlock’s_ name.

This time around, his violin playing does little in easing John's feverish dreams. He plays calming pieces from different composers, hoping against hope that the next one might bring John comfort, but to no avail. Eventually Sherlock finds himself sitting on the landing just outside John's bedroom, his hand pressed to the locked door as if he could let John know that he's not alone, that he'd do more to alleviate John's pain if he only he knew how to. 

His flatmate would appear in the morning with hollows around his eyes and mouth pulled in a pinched smile; Sherlock would offer him tea in the only way he knew how, and describe the latest case he was working on with Scotland Yard. 

John would offer the occasional praises in return, commenting that he “wished he was there for all of it”, but really, it doesn't take much to see that John was still in no condition to be running around London. 

On the fifth night after their return, Sherlock listens once more to the evidence of John's persistent inner demons clawing at him, dragging him into the depths of restful sleep, and decides he's had enough. 

He tiptoes up the stairs to John's room and finding the door unlocked, nudges it open, letting the light behind him spill into the room, throwing John's writhing form into stark relief. 

The sheets have gotten tangled around John's lower half, his cotton-clad upper torso glistening in sweat. His eyes are pinched closed, mouth letting out little gasps of distress, neck straining and chest heaving. 

“ _Sh.. Sherlock!_ ” John screams into the bedsheets. 

Sherlock finds himself at a loss of what to do. He knows how the mind works, how nightmares might come to be and just how deep a person can be in sleep before dreams take over. He's hardly had nightmares himself, both as a child and an adult, mostly because he rarely lets his body drop into a deep and restful sleep before he is up again, his mind making do with what little energy it had managed to gather. 

Nightmares borne out of post-traumatic stress are unpredictable at best, and can have lasting, potentially debilitating effects on the sufferer. Watching John in the throes of one, in person, only serves to remind Sherlock if how much his friend has gone through in the past year, and his respect for the quiet ex-army doctor has only grown exponentially. 

Stepping forward, Sherlock perches on the edge of the bed. He knows he should approach John with caution, but it is _hateful_ seeing him in this state. Taking risks is no stranger to Sherlock Holmes, so he reaches out, lays a hand on John's shoulder, and shakes it gently. 

“John? John, wake up. Please,” he pleads. 

John continues thrashing about, giving no indication of waking anytime soon. Placing himself firmly by John's side, Sherlock pulls the man's body close to his, rubbing at his limbs, doing all he can to rouse his friend from fitful sleep. 

“John!” he tried again, louder this time as he settles the blond head partway onto his lap. A strong fist flies out of nowhere, hitting him square on the temple and almost off the bed before bright blue eyes shoot open, focusing on the stranger hunched over him. 

“Shh, John, it's alright. You were having nightmares again,” Sherlock soothes. 

“Sherlock, what? What are you doing here? Oh god, did I hurt you? I'm so sorry!” John babbles, cradling Sherlock's face. 

“I'm fine,” Sherlock replies, smiling, unconsciously leaning into the touch. “This is what it's been like, when I was gone?”

“Pretty much, yeah. Sorry you had to see that.”

“No, stop it.… John. It is me who should apologize, for all the hurt that I've caused you.” Sherlock admits, eyes dropping to his lap where his hands have started shaking. “I see now that when I jumped off that roof, I thought I was saving you, when in all actuality, I was throwing you to the hounds. I made it worse when you were already on the mend. I...I -” he breaks off, his vision blurring as tears pool in his eyes.

“Hey, hey, Sherlock. You’re here now, aren’t you? You came back. I got my best friend back. You’re here now. It’s all that matters. You’re here now, so, _thank you_ , for coming back,” John says, eyes shining, and the next thing Sherlock knows, John’s arms are around him.

“John?” Sherlock all but squeaks into the dark of the room, but he can’t think of anything else, because John’s touch is the one thing he never knew he craved as much as a living being would need water, and air. The embrace burned a welcome warmth into his skin; John’s fingers, where they have settled at the nape of his neck are most certainly branding a permanent mark of comfort. Sherlock sighs, letting the tension bleed out of his body and dissipate into the still air around them. He relaxes into John’s hold, firmly settling his forehead on his best friend’s uninjured shoulder. As the fingers on John’s other hand rub soothing circles into his back, Sherlock makes a final feeble attempt at conversation.

“ _Please_ , forgive me.”

“I do forgive you, Sherlock. As I love you, more than you know,” John sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies (oh the irony) for the short update! This chapter basically did nothing plot-wise, but I still hope you're enjoying the read. Thank you for all the kudos, bookmarks, and comments; they keep me going and I appreciate your support so, so much <3


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can't figure out what John expects from this, whatever this is.

The two of them had stayed wrapped around each other for the rest of the night, Sherlock’s presence in his bed a soothing balm for John’s restlessness as he finally succumbed to his first restful sleep in days.

As he lay with his friend’s warm embrace surrounding him from all sides, Sherlock ponders what this means for their relationship. John had said he loved Sherlock twice now, and both times he hadn’t known how to respond. Now here they were, in the same bed, though in Sherlock’s defence, it is only because the close proximity seemed to be the only solution to John’s nightmares.

He isn’t sure he is ready for this. The two of them are skirting along dangerous territory. A hug or two between close friends is perfectly fine by societal standards, Sherlock knows, but he isn’t sure what they’re doing now - pressed tightly together in bed - may not be expected to morph into something _more_. He has never had to deal with a relationship like the one he has now with John. Everyone else he has kept at a comfortable distance, for he has never been the expressive type, only making known his appreciation and affections in forced smiles and platitudes. 

But with John, he finds himself craving the other's touch; the need to feel those small, calloused yet gentle hands on any part of him in even the most insignificant of moments, no matter while John is patching Sherlock up after a brush with a knife-wielding thief or while he passes him his usual cup of tea each morning. The skin-to-skin contact helps keep him grounded; the memories of them a driving force when he was away battling Moriarty’s shadows and his own. 

Now as he basks in the welcome warmth of John's body alongside his, Sherlock heaves a deep sigh, knowing that this may never last. He can never give John what he deserves in a relationship: stability and trust, mostly. He has let John down too many times, throwing himself headlong into danger without a care for his own safety in the end because it's all he had ever had to think about, the Work. 

He didn't care if he had to suffer bruises or sprained limbs when chasing down suspects and he didn't need to worry about other people's concerns about his health. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson aside, no one else ever warranted a spare thought before he willingly puts his life on the line. 

Now, however, he has John. 

John, for whom Sherlock is eternally grateful for having been there to mend his wounds and defend him from those who choose to insult him when they fall short of understanding the consulting detective and his ways. John, with his soft smile and softer jumpers, the glint in his eyes and the quiet threat in his soldierly stance, his undeserved loyalty and his unassuming nature. 

Sherlock cannot bear the thought of accepting John as more than a friend, accepting his heart to fuse with his, only to later on break said heart when things start to get too much for him, all because Sherlock Holmes does not deal with something as trivial as emotions. 

He cannot deny it though, that John has most likely already willingly bound himself to Sherlock, and vice versa. 

John has made a spot for himself deep in Sherlock's existence and seems content to stay there for as long as he's needed - which, if Sherlock is to be perfectly honest with himself, is well.. pretty much for as long as the foreseeable future. If the events of the past weeks has thought Sherlock something, it is that neither of them can bear the thought of living without the other. 

This revelation evokes a surprised gasp from the detective, who quickly disentangles himself from John and jumps out of bed. He manages to wake his friend up in the process, who stirs and squints blearily up at the detective. “Wha- Sherlock?”

“Nothing John, go back to sleep. It's still early,” Sherlock smiles into the darkness. “I just need the loo.”

“Alright,” John says, already burrowing deeper into the covers. 

Sherlock closes the bedroom door behind him and starts down the stairs, heading straight to his leather chair where he settles into his routine thinking pose. 

A hand on his shoulder rouses him from his thoughts an hour later, and Sherlock watches John's every move as he putters around the kitchen preparing their breakfast. 

“John?” Sherlock calls out, uncertainly. 

“Hmmm?”

“Can we talk about last night?”

He almost missed it, the way John’s shoulders slumped a little bit more and the sound of the teaspoon rattling against the inside of the cup in his hands. 

“Yeah.. yeah. I’ll be right there,” John answers, voice barely audible over the screeching of the kettle.

Sherlock waits until his cup of tea is in his hands and John has settled into his own chair before he dares start the conversation. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh, finally settling to fiddle absentmindedly with the string of his dressing gown. “John, where do you see yourself a few years down the road?”

John sets down his cup on the small table by his chair. A whole minute passes before he answers, and to Sherlock, that hesitation speaks volumes. “Here. Preparing to retire, maybe. I.. I don't know.”

“If by ‘here’, I assume it involves me still being in the picture?”

John trains his gaze on him, lapis lazuli eyes burning with an intensity Sherlock has no name for. “Preferably, yes.”

“You're lying. It can't be what you want.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You.. you want - no, you _crave_ stability, John. You’ve imagined your happy ending with a wife, and possibly children, a rewarding career and a loving home. I am none of those things. Nothing about what I’ve done to you warrants you being here. So, this brings me to my next question: Why are you still here?”

“You know why. I've told you the reason twice now.”

“You can't possibly love me!” Sherlock gasps aloud, head shaking in denial. “You've got it wrong, you've got it all wrong. So please, just.. _stop_.”

“Sherlock, listen to me..” John makes to step forward, a hand outstretched to offer comfort, only for Sherlock to scramble away from his reach, eyes hardening, posture defensive. 

“I won't let you do this,” Sherlock barely managed to speak up. “I won't let you in only for you to realise somewhere down the road that this isn't what you _wanted_.”

“For God’s sake-” John raises his voice, hands thrown up in surrender. “Is it so bloody hard for you to spare me a minute to explain!?” Slowly he stalks forward, crowding Sherlock further into the living room until he has no choice but to stumble backwards into his chair. 

“F-fine then. One minute. Tell me why, John.”

John stares down at his friend, towering over him, his arms braced on the back of the chair, their faces only inches away. 

“Because..” John starts, only to have the words die in his throat and something click in his eyes and the look on his face change before Sherlock quite suddenly finds his lips pressed against John's. 

It is both startling and welcome, this. 

Warm yet numbing. 

Chaste yet all-consuming. 

_John_ , Sherlock thinks, and then he is kissing back. He wills his lips to open, releasing a sort of whimper that otherwise the great Sherlock Holmes will never admit to ever doing in his lifetime. Almost immediately he feels John's tongue delving into the spaces of his mouth, sweeping and licking his way in, their sleep-tinged breaths mixing hot and bubbly down their throats. 

Sherlock leans backwards and John takes the opportunity to properly arrange himself so that he is kneeling astride Sherlock's hips, arms now bent grasping the hair at the base of that long, long neck, caging the taller man in. Sherlock's hands flutter uncertainly, eventually settling on the hard lines of his back as the detective melts further into the kiss. 

John catches Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth, eliciting the first moan from the man beneath him; the sound prevalent amongst the otherwise muted noises of their kissing. He then soothes it with laves of his tongue, his grip tightening around the sweaty curls at Sherlock's nape. 

“ _God_ , Sherlock.”

“Mmmph,” is all he gets in response. It is now blissfully silent in Sherlock's head - all he can think of right now is _John, John, John_. He is only minutely aware of the torrent of sensations presenting themselves at the doors to his mind palace, automatically ushering them all into the room marked ‘ **John** ’. Every memory, every detail of his friend he keeps here, safely under lock and key. He will properly file this new information away later, when he isn't otherwise distracted. 

For now, he revels in John’s every touch, every whisper of his lips against his ear. He decides to relinquish all control for he understands that he's willing to give John _this_ at least, to surrender himself fully to the other man before it all comes crumbling down around them in the aftermath. Sherlock sighs an accepting sigh, and closes his eyes. 

John's hands have left his nape and are now stroking down his arms, settling on his waist. His lips have slowed their assault on Sherlock's and are drifting to his jaw, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Sherlock gasps as those roughened, thin lips make their way to his Adam's apple, his neck straining further backwards to expose more of his long neck to John, his hands flying up to grasp at John's shoulders. 

“J-John, more, please, just-” Sherlock whimpers, his hips shifting, seeking the slightest bit of friction. His pyjama pants must be tenting obscenely, he thinks. 

“I know, god, we're getting there, fuck, you're _gorgeous_ , you know that?” John growls, before his hands return to Sherlock's nape, and at the same time, he bites down on the collarbone in front of him. 

“ _John!_ ” Sherlock all but screams into John's grey-blonde hair, hips thrusting up hard, his groin finally coming into blissful contact with the other's. He sits up straight, pulling John's lower torso down so that there is not an inch of space between them. 

“Fuck,” John curses into Sherlock's sweaty neck, his hips starting to move on their own volition, gyrating in a steady rhythm against Sherlock's. Their cocks rub together, separated by the thin layer of cotton but it is still enough to shoot shocking sparks up both their spines. Sherlock lets out another loud moan, nudging John's face up so their lips meet again, his plump lips and eager tongue sweeping over that inviting mouth. 

“Beautiful, yeah come on, you can't believe how much I've wanted this, god,” John rumbles, breathless, tongues fighting for dominance. The pre-come they're both leaking have eased the way and the sensations are threatening to drop them both, pleasure rendering their limbs numb, but he picks up the pace, thrusting against Sherlock, harder than before. 

He shucks Sherlock's worn shirt up, immediately bringing his mouth downwards to wrap it around one peaked nipple. A fresh bolt of arousal pools in Sherlock's groin, where he is already wound tight, ready to splinter him in half. 

John's lips tug, nip and soothe the hardened nub, face flushed in satisfaction as he registers the endless stream of noises coming from Sherlock. His hands dig painfully into Sherlock's sides as he switches to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attentions. 

Sherlock's mind is going into overdrive, the flood of sensations rendering him incapable of proper speech any longer. The knot in his groin feels about to snap, and when John gives a particularly hard thrust that rubs straight against the throbbing vein at the base of his slick cock, his lips sucking hard at a reddened nipple, Sherlock's world goes white, and his body _seizes_ , a high pitched sound in the background that could only be his own scream of pleasured agony, as he comes, his release shooting into his pants in white, hot spurts. 

After several seconds, Sherlock comes to himself, opening his eyes to see John's face up close, eyes dilated, mouth panting hard, hot puffs of breath on his face. His hand is a blur under his own pants as he fists his cock, seeking release. “God, Sherlock, that was incredible, god, I need, I need-” John moans, long and hard, lips slamming against Sherlock's in a bruising kiss, giving a particularly hard bite onto Sherlock's lower lip before he cries out a choked cry, spurts of ejaculate coating his hand and a bit of Sherlock's stomach, chest heaving, hips thrusting with each pulse of his orgasm. 

He slumps forward onto Sherlock, but the taller man doesn't move to embrace him, letting John catch his breath. 

“God, Sherlock,” John huffs, his hands roaming freely on Sherlock's exposed torso, rubbing over the skin he'd left reddened and bruised. When his hands settle on Sherlock's back, the moment he feels the raised welts on the otherwise smooth skin, John's head snaps back up, wide eyes meeting Sherlock's closed off gaze. 

“What.. What is that? Sherlock?” John sputters, but is too late. Sherlock starts to push him away until John has no choice but to get up and off him. 

“Good to know I was finally able to give you what you _really_ wanted from me,” Sherlock spits out, drawing to his full height. He glares down at John where he is kneeling on the floor, legs still weakened from their earlier activities. He looks away and resolutely storms off to his room, slamming the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update, a short one, and not particularly a happy one at that. I'm sorry :(


	8. Chapter Eight

Sherlock locks the door, turning to slump against it as he feels his legs give out under him. He doesn't fight it - the emotions that come barrelling up his chest, burning their way through his tired heart and emerging as unwanted but necessary tears. 

“Sherlock?” John calls through the door. 

“Leave me alone.” His voice breaks at the last word. Sherlock realises the enormity of what the two of them had just done. He'd let his guard down, let himself feel what it would have been like to be wanted, to be _loved_. 

“What happened back there? Please, Sherlock, let me in,” John pleads. 

Sherlock hears a dull thud that coincides with a rattling of his bedroom door. He sees it - John on his knees, head bowed and braced against the door - and swallows around the hard lump in his throat because John Watson should never have to plead on his knees to anyone. 

John is headstrong and his own person and he deserves _so_ much more, someone better than him- 

“What did I do wrong? Sherlock?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with!” Sherlock bites back but his voice has lost all the fight in it. 

“Don't give me that crap, Sherlock. What reason could you possibly have for running off after what just happened between the two of us? If you regretted what we did, then I'd rather you tell it to my face right now instead of me having to shout myself hoarse through this bloody door!”

“You- you're right, John.”

“What?”

“It was a mistake.”

There was a beat of silence before John spoke, barely audible. “Are you serious?”

“I'm quite sure.”

“Well why didn't you say something? You know, stop me before I could do anything?”

Sherlock wipes at his eyes, desperately trying to hide his shame even though there was no one around to see it. “I.. I got caught up in the moment. I figured out how to relinquish control to someone else for once, and so when you came on to me, I didn’t fight it. I could see that you needed to let out some steam, and came to the conclusion that what you thought you felt for me was just born out of sexual frustration more than actual affection-”

“STOP. Sherlock, you’re fucking kidding me right?” John all but screams through the door. “Is that really what you think? That I’d go so low as to tell someone I love him, for real, and more than once at that, when all I wanted was was a _shag_?”

“I don't know what to think anymore,” Sherlock sighs, defeated. “This is why I've never bothered with my transport, with people _caring_ , with anything as trivial and base as desire and lust and all these _feelings_. At least until you came along. You, with whom I had given in and had my first.. My first time with. Look at where we are now. I never do anything right, John, you must see that.”

“First time? Oh god. Oh god, _Sherlock_ -” Sherlock hears John sputter and then heavy footsteps are thudding down the corridor before the door to the flat slams shut.

Sherlock braces his head on his knees and lets himself go numb. 

***

Sherlock shakes awake to the sound of unsteady footsteps in the sitting room. 

_John’s drunk._

He stays quiet, listening intently to the slam of the refrigerator door and muffled curses. He hears John drag himself, one agonizing heavy trod at a time, up the stairs to his room. The door clicks shut, pindrop-silent in contrast to the deafening roar of everything else. 

He considers digging out the mahogany box still safely kept under his bed. The box that holds the one thing that Sherlock can rely on to quieten his mind. He hasn’t needed to use it ever since John came into his life 3 years prior.

He closes his eyes once more.

***

Sometime later, when Sherlock lifts his head and sees the darkening skies outside his bedroom window, he huffs a tired laugh, and confident that John is dead to the world in his bed, opens the bedroom door, collects his coat, and walks out the front door. 

***

He keeps walking with no destination in mind. The skies open up and yet he walks, desperate to think of anything other than the fact that there is something irreparable in him, that he has driven John away permanently, that he has now been doomed to a life of solitude and self-hatred. 

He ever rarely makes mistakes, and yet Sherlock can't help but feel the self-loathing bubble up in him. John Watson has always been the best thing to happen to him and yet it is that act of ripping his heart open for the only person who has stayed by his side all this while that simultaneously feels to Sherlock like the biggest mistake of his life. 

Or is it that he is simply _afraid_?

Afraid that after Sherlock has let his guard down, John would not like what he sees in front of him? 

Afraid that he can never truly bestow John with all the love he could possibly deserve? 

Afraid that his love for John would not the making of Sherlock Holmes, but his undoing?

His phone buzzes in his pocket. 

_From: John  
Received: 19th Feb, 10.03pm_

**Where are you? We need to talk.**

_To: John  
Sent: 19th Feb, 10.05pm_

**We really don't. SH**

_From: John  
Received: 19th Feb, 10.08pm_

**Come off it, Sherlock. Look, I'm sorry I took off. Needed to clear my head a bit. I bought Chinese, I know you've not eaten.**

_To: John  
Sent: 19th Feb, 10.15pm_

**Not hungry. SH**

_From: John  
Received: 19th Feb, 10.19pm_

**Fine. Just come back soon will you? Don't get into trouble yeah?**

_From: John  
Received: 19th Feb, 10.20pm_

**I love you. I mean it.**

Sherlock tucks his phone away without replying. He wonders how much of the alcohol is talking, in that last text John sent. 

He is drenched from the rain but still he walks, and eventually he takes in his surroundings and realises that he is at the foot of St. Bart’s Hospital. 

His heart thuds loudly in his chest and his head begins to throb. Sherlock soldiers on to the rooftop. 

He needs to know where it all went wrong. 

Once on the roof, he settles down against a ventilation shaft, out of view, and thinks. He contemplates deleting the morning away, because what difference would it make? Shouldn't John be grateful that Sherlock would not be able to recall the argument and the source that led to it? 

John could accept it and pretend this morning never happened. Sherlock could move on, this time choosing not to confront John about his supposed affections, and they could continue with quietly rebuilding the close friendship they had had before the Fall. 

But what if John only felt more hurt, to know that Sherlock returned to the flat with no recollection of the past day? It would only make Sherlock a coward to have taken the easy route and refused to make things right. 

What if, out of a sense of loss, John is driven into another relapse and retreats into his shell, and only this time, Sherlock cannot do anything to help him heal? 

Which outcome would Sherlock rather cope with? 

The clouds thunder overhead, and still Sherlock thinks. He retreats to his Mind Place and replays the events of that morning, all of it. 

***

“Sherlock! Oh thank god!”

Sherlock opens his eyes to see John looming over him, face screwed tight with worry. He can’t feel his limbs and he is soaked to the skin, his body tightening with tiny spasms as his muscles struggle to gain warmth.

“How long were you sitting here in the rain, you madman? Thank god I had the sense to call Mycroft to find you. You didn’t come home for two days. When he told me you were at St. Bart’s, I assumed the worst.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, and not only because his lips are numb and his teeth are chattering from the cold. He looks away as John covers him in his own coat and rubs his arms vigorously.

“Hey. Look at me. Sherlock. Look at me!” John huffs in exasperation.

“W-what?” Sherlock mutters, head still turned away.

“Let’s just forget about everything for now alright? I need to get you back home and warmed up. Can’t have you seizing up on me,” John laughs, almost sadly. “Besides, after the last time I told myself I never wanted to see this damned rooftop ever again.”

Sherlock meets John’s eyes then, and when he sees the endless pool of desperation reflected in them, he relents and lets himself slump forward into his friend’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock breathes into John’s shirt.

Strong arms encircle him then and pull him in for a tighter embrace to clutch at the back of his sodden Belstaff; a warm forehead settles itself onto the top of his head and Sherlock feels the ghost of a kiss, featherlight at his left temple. He sighs again and breathes in time with John, steady and calm. His hands creep around to clutch at the front of John’s shirt, and it is only then that he tastes the salty tears that have spilled over from his eyes - tears borne of loss, longing, and now, finally, _finally_ , love.

John pulls away and helps him to his feet. They slowly make their way down, Sherlock secure in John’s tight grip. He doesn’t comment when he spots the black car that appears, unsurprisingly, at the sidewalk and they make their way home in silence, save for the constant chattering of teeth and shivers that plague Sherlock’s body.

Once safely ensconced in the threshold of 221B, John leads him straight to the bathroom where he immediately starts the shower. Turning towards Sherlock, he removes both of their coats, but before going any further, he looks up at the taller man in a silent plea for permission.

Sherlock grants it, and together they remove all of his clothing until he stands there in only his pants. John takes his hand and wordlessly helps him climb up and over until he is settled in the hot bathwater. Sherlock curls into himself, willing his muscles to relax and waiting for the warmth to resettle into his bones. 

He is surprised to find that John is kneeling on the floor next to the bath, and soon a pair of roughened hands reach out to sweep the damp curls out of his eyes and grab his favoured bottle of shampoo. Lathering his hands, John gets to work scrubbing the knots out of the mop of curls atop Sherlock’s head, fingertips rubbing soothingly into the tense muscles of the back of his neck and his shoulders. As they graze over the marked expanse of his back, Sherlock stiffens but John acts like he doesn’t feel anything on the skin, massaging and cleaning without a word.

“It was Serbia,” Sherlock voices to the now-humid air of the bathroom.

John’s gaze flits to his but his hands continue their ministrations. Done soaping, he directs the spray to wash the suds off. He hums noncommittally. John must think him fragile, afraid that if he speaks up, John might shatter the palpable tension between them.

Sherlock tests the rigidity of his limbs, licking his lips. “The day I found out you overdosed. They had me tied up. Tortured, with endless whips down my back.” He looks up, seeing John’s horrified expression. He answers with a small, brave smile. “Serbia was the last piece of the puzzle. The last surviving thread of Moriarty’s web before…. Before I could finally return to you.”

“Sherlock..” John whispers, his hands now limp in the cooling water. 

“All of it, all the pain they put me through was worth it if it meant you were safe. Safe from Moriarty, safe from everything else. I had Mycroft keep an eye on you when I was gone. It killed me bit by bit inside to know you were not doing well, but knowing you were okay with each day only served to drive me forward to reach the end of my goal. The thought of you waiting for me at the end was all I needed. I put in all I could because I knew the longer I took to come back to you, the lesser the odds that I could salvage what I had left behind. I realise that my return may not necessarily be welcomed with open arms but what would it matter, as long as you were safe?”

John is barely breathing, his eyes wide and reddened around the edges. Sherlock longs to pull him in and comfort him.

At this point, he isn’t sure _who_ ought to comfort _whom_. Nevertheless he knows he needs to be strong for the both of them, if they were to survive this.

“And then Mycroft came in with the news that Mrs Hudson had found you in time. I almost lost you, John. I almost lost you because I wasn’t _quick_ enough. If only I had worked harder, been more efficient and made better decisions, I would have returned to London and be back at 221B before you could attempt to end your life. It all would have been in vain; two years on the run, only to come back and find out that I was _too late_. I never would have done this for anyone else, John. I realised then that you were the most important thing in my life, and I would have done anything, anything you ask of me just so I could keep you with me, by my side, just the two of us, against the rest of the world.”

“God, Sherlock,” John gasps, surging up and bringing their foreheads together. Tears have spilled once more and now trail down John’s cheeks, and Sherlock is almost certain he is about to burst into tears as well. Sherlock can feel his heart swelling in his chest, and the relief of having voiced every single fear he faced during his time away fills his head in a rush, spilling forth in an unusual litany of giggles and hiccups.

Sherlock must have the oddest expression on his face because John pulls back only to burst into a loving chuckle, reaching blindly behind him for a dry towel. He pulls Sherlock to his feet and out of the bath, drying every part of him he could reach. He reaches down to wipe off Sherlock’s long legs, straightening only to find Sherlock’s lips waiting for him. 

“I love you,” Sherlock declares, gaze confident, eyes softened with acceptance and love, always love, right before their lips meet once again. John clutches at him, their noses bumping, no thanks to the height difference between them. They keep the kiss innocent, no tongues, alternating firm presses of lips with barely-there fleeting brushes. 

When John’s hands find their way to Sherlock’s hips he pulls away but close enough for their noses to touch. His eyes wander searchingly over Sherlock’s.

“What happened that morning- I’m sorry it went the way it did,” John says, a flash of regret in his eyes. “I didn’t ask you what you wanted. I just assumed it was what you wanted as well, and I am frankly still angry at myself for not having it made clear to you that I wanted _everything_. You’re all that I could have ever asked for. Well now we both know we’re bollocks with words.”

“John, it’s fine. Really. I overreacted.”

“No, it’s not fine. You said it was your first time? I thought, yeah, of course it was _our_ first, but did you really mean..?” John trails off.

“I’ve never been with anyone, ever,” Sherlock answers, shifting on his feet.

“You deserved better than that. _I_ could have done better than that. Let me make it up to you,” John soothes with another kiss. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and nods his agreement. 

_What have I ever done, my whole life, to deserve **you**?_


End file.
